‘I feel like you haven’t been around much,’ I say.
Bon Iver looks happy, though. ‘I was in the tree house!’ he says, filling his rucksack with muffins and pulling me by the sleeve. We run across the meadow and down to the creek, where he has indeed built a platform with a roof, high above the grass. Inside, the groans and pops of the tree in the wind are alarming, but he has a nice rug and a ukulele and the walls are covered with maps, and the creek chuckles below, and since we have these muffins I could stay here forever.