The Weight of Snow

EIGHTY-FOUR

The icicles hanging from the roofline cut the landscape into vertical planes. The snow reflects the clear blue sky. The cold has stiffened the pine needles. A few flakes wander between sky and earth. I don’t know where they come from. They are carried on the wind, and never touch the ground. Like meteors going by at close range, but never reaching us.

Matthias does his calisthenics. He jumps up and down in place. His limbs are loose and his slender old body reacts to the impact with impressive flexibility. When he strikes his chest with the palm of his hand, the cavernous depth of his lungs is audible.

I watch him go through his paces and figure I am getting better. Soon I will be able to get out of bed. Pain is still a close companion, like a sleeping animal, but I have stopped needing pills to tolerate its presence by my side.

When he finishes his exercises, Matthias opens the trap door to the cellar and takes out some food.

I can give you a hand, I tell him.

He looks up. Hesitates. Maybe he thinks I want to deprive him of the privilege of passing the time by preparing the meals, but he ends up accepting.

Here, he says, bringing me a knife and a cutting board, take care of the vegetables for the soup, I’ll make the bread.

As I peel potatoes, I realize this is the first time I have made myself useful since I came here. I still can’t stand up and I’m not very skillful when it comes to cooking, but at least I’m doing something. Meanwhile, Matthias kneads the dough and whistles, though he really only pushes air through the spaces between his teeth. Maybe he is imitating the sound of rivers swollen with spring run-off. Or the icy wind whirling above our porch room.

As the soup simmers, the steam that rises into the air sticks to my window. With the cold outside, it forms a fine layer of frost. To see through I have to scratch an opening in the glass. A little porthole in the stained glass of crystals. As I look outside, Matthias tells me his father was a cook in the lumber camps. And that he was his assistant for a few years, after the end of the war.

I remember they used to leave once the rivers hit flood stage. Plenty of them were willing to brave the fast waters to drive the logs to the mills. None of them could swim, no one wore a life jacket, but all of them had a cross around their necks. They rode the floating logs with their hobnailed boots, their staff, and their songs. When a log-driver got swallowed up by the water and disappeared between the trunks, he could trust only his prayers. Sometimes his brothers managed to fish out his body before it got swept away by the current, but most of the time the rapids and the freezing water left no chance. Every evening, when they sat down at the table, they would reflect a moment, then eat everything set before them as if it was their last supper.

As the slabs of black bread cook on the stove and the scent of grilling flour fills the room, Matthias points toward the crucifix he hung above the front door.

I lift my eyebrows.

It’s ready, he says.

He serves us the soup and breaks a slab of bread in two. It’s hot, and steaming inside. I dip it into the soup and bite into it with gusto. As he recites some kind of grace, I challenge him with my mouth full.

We’re like the log-drivers you talk about. Only we don’t need a crucifix, we need a horseshoe.

Matthias stares at me a moment as if I didn’t understand. Then, slowly, his face brightens and he thanks me for sharing his daily bread.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

Matthias helps me get to the rocking chair. Again, I am surprised by his strength when he holds me up. But I suppose I have never been so light, so frail.

I am sitting by the stove with my spyglass and a blanket. Matthias is close at hand, at the table. He threads a needle.

I have a new angle on the landscape. I still see the forest that stands without compromise above the snow. But from this point of view, I can make out the poles and electric wires that cross the fields and link us to the village. Those metal cables on which our lives were once suspended. Those conduits were invested with mysterious power. Those black lines on which a few birds are perched as if nothing had changed.

The sun is setting and the cold turns yesterday’s snow into a dazzling sheet. When I close my eyes, I see colours that don’t exist. When I open them, it is so bright I feel like I’m suffering from snow blindness.

As he darns a pair of jeans, Matthias asks me what I did before the blackout. He knows the answer, I’m sure.

I was a mechanic.

Like your father?

Yes, like my father.

And since the blackout, do you still consider yourself a mechanic?

I hold my breath a moment, and look at my hands, then my legs. With the accident and the power outage, all the time I spent underneath vehicles, my hands in oil and iron filings, is just a vague memory.

As he carefully ties off the thread, Matthias states that for him nothing has changed. He earned his living doing all sorts of things, and he has been married fifty-seven years.

I’ve always managed to get by. One more winter is not going to make a difference.

On those words, he sticks himself with the needle. He jumps to his feet, goes to the window, and changes the subject.

We’re going to have snow, he predicts, I can feel it.

For the moment, the sky is completely clear. I look out at the barometer and see the little branch pointing up, no hesitation there.

With his lips, Matthias sucks off the blood that blossoms like a pearl on his fingertip. I wonder if he understands what is happening. What is becoming of us. What awaits us. Maybe he has not grasped the magnitude of the blackout.

Unless I’m the one who’s completely lost his grip.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

Matthias was wrong, it didn’t snow. Soon it will be a week since we saw our last cloud. During the day, sunlight fills the porch, and at night, stars pierce the sky. Only the blowing snow gives the impression that the white blanket has thickened in places.

We play chess and talk about this and that. The winter, food, my legs. Our conversations are sporadic since our games require all our attention. I still have not managed to beat him, but I am beginning to learn his tactics, his reflexes, his habits, and he knows it. He has stopped leaving anything to chance. He makes minute calculations before moving the slightest pawn. As if a reversal of fortune were something inconceivable.

It is my move when suddenly someone knocks on the door. Matthias jumps to his feet and orders me not to touch anything.

A man is standing in the doorway overflowing with light. Jonas. I have not seen him for over ten years, but I recognize him the moment he sets foot in the room. When I worked at my father’s garage, we used to see him going by on his bike. He always looked drunk, though he never touched a drop. He whistled and sang as he zigzagged along on his bicycle. Every day, in his innocence, he rummaged through roadside ditches and garbage cans in search of empty beer bottles. Often we saw him along the road, gathering up bottles and talking to himself out loud. From a distance, it looked as if he were having it out with the horizon.

He is wearing snow pants patched at the knees, a turquoise coat, a fur cap, and a long yellow scarf. And he is holding a pair of crutches. He comes in and leans them against the wall. He sits down on the stool, breathing hard. His cheeks are red with effort and cold.

It’s not easy, it’s hard getting anywhere with all this snow, he says, stumbling over his words. With snowshoes on my feet, I’m always afraid I’ll fall down and not be able to get up. I needed, it took me an hour to get here, maybe more.

Matthias seems surprised by this unexpected visit, but Jonas does not give it any thought. He watches me, his face split by a big smile.

I remember when you were no higher than that. When you came up to here. You used to run through the village with the kids your age. You tried to scare me. Scare me when I was out hunting empties.

Jonas has gotten older, but has not really changed. He moves the same way, hesitant but abrupt. The same overstated enthusiasm. The same luminous emptiness in his eyes. It’s true, he practically doesn’t have a hair on his head anymore, or a tooth in his mouth, but the way he speaks is just as fast. Sometimes his words pile up and fall over each other. As if he were in a hurry to speak his piece, in case it changed before he could get it out.

I didn’t know it was you they found underneath the car wreck last summer. Had I known. Had I known I would have come and visited. To tell you I’m sorry about your father. Yes, sorry. He wasn’t doing very well. In the village people said all kinds of things about him. People are like that. I should, I should know. I remember him well, I used to go see him at the garage all the time, I used to sit in a corner and talk to him as he worked. You left the village and you didn’t come back. Lots of water, that’s a lot of water under the bridge now. My poor mother died too. But she was luckier, she went before the blackout happened.

Matthias puts the soup on the stove. I search for something to say. My father, his poor mother, the blackout. That’s how it is, nothing to be done.

It’s nice of you to come, I end up telling him.

Pretty Maria told me you were here, he says. She gave me a pair of crutches for you. Look. She asked me to bring them for you. They’re real crutches. Real wood crutches. I wanted to bring them before, but yesterday a kid from the village came back from the forest with his face all bloody. Jacob. He was crying and nobody could understand a thing, not a word of what he was saying.

Jonas blinks his eyes hard a few times, then swallows his spit and goes back to his story.

When it happened he was bleeding a lot. They cleaned off his face, but there was nothing, nothing anyone could do. People started to panic. I wasn’t doing anything, so they asked me to go for help. So that’s what I did. Maria wasn’t at home. José opened the door. I told him everything and he went right away. I kept on looking, because Maria is the one who takes care of hurt people usually. But she wasn’t anywhere. So I knocked at Joseph’s place. He came to the door half-naked, like he’d just gotten out of bed. I told him everything that happened. I was just finishing my story when pretty Maria came up behind him, buttoning her shirt in a hurry. She thanked me, got her coat, and went right out. I stood there a moment in the doorway with Joseph. It was cold, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He looked me in the eye and made me promise not to say a word. I promised because it looked very, very important.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Matthias smiling, as if he had won a bet.

When I found Jacob again, Maria and José were fixing his wounds. In the meantime, he told what happened. He captured an ermine by trapping it in a hollow log. When he bent over to look at it, it leapt at his face. Those little beasts are nasty. You have to take care. Especially if they feel trapped. They’re completely white with a pink muzzle. They’re pretty, but nasty. Jacob got his cheek and his eyebrow cut up. Nothing, nothing too bad. But what a morning! That’s why, that’s why I didn’t come and bring you the crutches yesterday. Because of Jacob. And the ermine.

Matthias hands a bowl of soup to Jonas, who accepts it gladly.

Two days from now, there’s going to be a dance in the village, Jonas announces between two gulps. Jude is organizing it in the church basement. With generators and everything. He says there’s going to be beer and a hot meal. He’s been talking about it forever, and everyone, everyone is invited. I’ll be there, you can count on that. For the hot meal and the empties. Nobody wants to buy them from me anymore, but I put them aside. One day, one day I’ll go get the deposit and that’ll give me some money. A lot of money.

Jonas empties his bowl noisily by drinking directly from it, then he sets it down on the table with a look of satisfaction.

It’s going to snow pretty soon, he claims. The clouds, the clouds are like horse tails. It’s cold, but you can feel the humidity in the air. And the wind is going to blow for the next few days, that’s for sure. But you’re all right here. With the sun and the stove, you’re better off, much better than on the other side, right?

Matthias nods as Jonas gets up, puts his coat, his fur cap, and scarf back on.

I’ve got to go back down to the village. I promised, I promised to help out in the stable this afternoon. We’re going to get the hay out of the loft. That’s a lot of snowshoeing for one day and I don’t like walking with these things on my feet. But that’s all right, I’m happy to see you, see you again. After all, this place is your place. And the crutches, the crutches that pretty Maria found for you, they’re right there. You know, I remember when you were yay-high. You ran through the village with the other kids your age. You tried to scare me. But it never worked. No, never. Maybe you heard me from the distance, but I saw you coming. I always saw you coming.

Thanks for the crutches, I can’t wait to use them.

I remember, I always saw you coming, Jonas says one last time, and closes the door behind him.

We hear him continuing his conversation as he moves off. Through the window, I watch him head down toward the village with his gesticulations and his patchwork clothes. Matthias goes back to his spot in the rocking chair and stares intently at the chessboard.

I look at the barometer that seems to be pointing downward despite the clear skies. I think of the dance that will take place the day after tomorrow. I envy Jonas for being able to attend. If only I could walk, I would go too. I wouldn’t dance until I’d had more than enough to drink, but before that I’d see a few familiar faces, I’d find out a little more about what was happening in the village, and I’d talk about things with Maria and try to make her laugh.

Go ahead, it’s your turn, Matthias says impatiently. Go ahead and play, and get it over with.

NINETY-SIX

It has been snowing for two days. The mountains that curve above the village and the line of the forest have disappeared from sight. The snow hurries to reach the earth and the immensity of the landscape has narrowed down to the four walls of this room.

Matthias is sitting in the rocking chair, absorbed in a book that he found on the other side. The afternoon will pass this way. He turns a page from time to time, and I watch the landscape swallow us up in slow motion. The wind rises as night falls. Squalls shake the trees and sweep past the porch. Jonas had it right. First snow, then wind.

Later, Matthias puts down his book and goes over to the stove. He stirs the soup and stares down at the bottom of the kettle.

Stories always repeat, he says after a time. We wanted to escape the fate that was assigned us and here we are, swallowed up by life’s course. Gulped down by a whale. Far from the surface, we hope it will spit us back up on the shore. We are in the belly of winter, in its very entrails. In this warm darkness, we know we can’t escape what will befall us.

Night has fallen. The snow keeps falling, but it has taken on shadows. Strange, but a weak glow illuminates the bottom edge of the sky. As if they had lit a streetlamp in the village. I observe the yellowish ring with my spyglass. A vague halo through the crests of the trees, and snowflakes harried by the wind.

Matthias lights the oil lamp and serves the soup.

As I empty my bowl, I realize that the light in the sky has become brighter. The village streets seem illuminated. We can hear the church bells. They must be celebrating the dance. I would have loved to be there and believe, if only for a few hours, that life is normal again.

ONE HUNDRED NINE

The snow and the wind dropped off suddenly this morning. Like an animal that, for no apparent reason, gives up one prey to hunt another. Dense and heavy, the silence surprised us, since we still feared the gusts would tear off the roof and suck us up into emptiness.

When we look out the window, it is like gazing on the open sea. On all sides, the wind has sculpted giant waves of snow that froze just as they were about to wash over us.

With calmer weather, Matthias decides to take a look outside. In the endless tunnel of my spyglass, I watch him disappear across the snow hardened by the cold. His form grows fainter as he reaches the forest. He is like one of the Three Kings moving toward his star.

There are three tin cans on the counter. Open and empty. I take out my slingshot and a few iron pellets. I extend my arm, aim, and pull back the rubber band. When I let it go, the pellet cuts through the air with a whistling sound, misses its target, bounces off the wall, and ends up buried in the pile of logs by the stove. I start over. This time, I make sure my wrist is lined up straight with my arm. I close one eye and fire. One of the tin cans rattles to the floor. Not the one I was aiming for. But I still have some pellets.

Matthias returns from his walk with an armful of wood.

When you see the house from a distance, he says, taking off his coat, you realize how much snow is piled up on the roof. It’s absolutely crazy.

As he kneels down in front of the stove, he spots the tin cans upended on the floor. He looks in my direction. I display my slingshot. He smiles and sets up the metal targets on the counter again.

Go ahead, he challenges me, show me what you can do.

ONE HUNDRED NINE

Dawn has broken. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is bright. The snow glitters. We are drinking coffee. Even if it tastes very much like yesterday’s version, we hold onto our cups jealously and savour it, one sip at a time.

The porch is adapting to the cold. The wood structure has stiffened. The foundations clench their teeth. Sometimes, sharp tinkling noises echo between the beams: roofing nails yielding under pressure. The village chimneys give off generous amounts of smoke. Under every roof people are awakened by the icy caress of winter and they hurry to get the fire going again. Birch bark produces white smoke that rises straight through the still air. Like marble columns holding up the sky. As if we were living in a cathedral.

Once he has finished his lengthy contemplation, Matthias gulps down the rest of his coffee, turns away from the window, and begins his exercises. He balances on one leg, one arm stretched toward the ceiling, the other flat on his stomach. He rolls his shoulders and loosens his muscles, then squats down and straightens several times. I watch him go through his paces and tell myself that though my body is regenerating a little more each day, he is the one with new blood in his veins.

Suddenly the door swings open and Joseph appears on the threshold in a great cloud of steam. With his smoking nostrils and his loaded sled, he looks like a draft horse, shining with labour. His beard is frosted over and icicles hang from his moustache. He frees himself from his harness, sits down, takes off his mittens, and blows on his hands. He tries to take off his coat but his fingers are paralyzed by the biting cold and he cannot work his zipper.

Matthias heats up oatmeal and begins unloading the wood Joseph has brought us.

ONE HUNDRED NINE

You know, Joseph tells us, Jude organized a dance last week. He started up the generators. Everyone was there. You could hear the music everywhere in the village. It was a party, just perfect. Like in a dream. People were eating and dancing. When the church bells rang in the middle of the night, they thought it was a joke. But someone cut the music and said there was a chimney fire in a house next door. When we got there, it was too late. The wind rose and whipped up the flames and the roof caught. Smoke came whirling out of the windows. The church bells were still ringing away, but we couldn’t hear them because of the wind. We waited and watched the fire. The gusts of wind pushed the heat into our faces. The flames wrapped around the gables and the beams. The sky was orange above our heads, as if the streets were lit the way they used to be. The snow was melting and streams of water were rushing past our feet. We were sure the house would burn to the ground. But the flames decided to devour part of the roof and the upstairs. As if they were toying with us. The next day, the house was still smoking, but there was nothing more to see. Just the charred rafters that were still hissing.

What about the people? Matthias asks, glancing up at the spot where the stove’s chimney climbs up past the ceiling.

At first, Joseph tells him, we were afraid for them. But luckily there was no one in the house when the fire broke out. In the days afterward, we found them new lodgings. But when they went back to recover their things, everything they owned was black and stunk of smoke. You know that kind of sticky, greasy smoke. Since then we’ve swept most of the chimneys in the village. With how cold it’s been these last days, people are burning whatever they can. Sometimes they lose control and the stoves overheat.

Joseph pauses, then runs his hand slowly over his forehead and his eyes.

During the last snowstorm, someone stole Jude’s snowmobile. At first José accused me but, you know, that made no sense. Later they realized that Jérémie had disappeared with his nine-year-old son. Everybody wanted to hunt them down, but the snow had covered their tracks long before. They tried comforting Jérémie’s wife instead, but she was inconsolable. José gave her some sleeping pills. All I hope is that Jérémie took enough gas to get somewhere. No one wants to imagine how Jude will react if he ever sets foot here again.

Matthias offers Joseph a bowl of oatmeal, which he gladly accepts.

And then, he continues, a number of people have fallen sick lately. Some got better on their own, you know, but others can’t seem to find their way back to health. Including Judith who took over schooling the children after Jean refused to do it anymore. Maria does what she can to help them, but she’s not a magician.

Joseph shovels the food into his mouth. A few oat flakes stick to his moustache.

You’re better off here, he concludes. Away from all that.

Matthias interrupts to ask him if he managed to get any milk. Joseph smiles.

Yes, I went to the stable this morning. While everyone was still in bed. The stable’s not heated, and I’m always surprised how comfortable it is in there. You know cows produce the heat they need. I could have stretched out and finished my night’s sleep. But Jonas was sleeping on the hay bales. He woke up as I was milking a cow. He was surprised to see me, but I told him to act like I wasn’t there, and he went back to sleep.

Matthias peers into the sacks of food and takes out two large containers of milk. He opens one and samples it.

It’s really fresh, he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. It’s perfect, thanks.

The families living in the notary’s old house made potted meat and fish pâtés, all kinds of things. I’ll bring you some. Might as well enjoy it. Even if we still have a good stock of food in the village, people are strict about rationing. Jude insists on being careful. And then there’s a rumour that the people in a village along the coast were able to hook up to a windmill. Everyone’s talking about it, everybody has an opinion. It could be true. There’s no electricity here, but on the sides of the mountains those machines are still working. Some people say they’re going to go there. On the other hand, if we believed what everyone says, the blackout would have been over a long time ago, and we should all be watching television with a cold beer and a TV dinner fresh out of the microwave.

Joseph sighs, then takes out his tobacco pouch. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, and inhales deeply. He goes on talking, but I have stopped paying attention. I follow the scrolls of smoke slowly issuing from his mouth.

You want one? he asks me.

With pleasure.

Joseph leans in my direction, surprised.

You talk now? That’s great news!

I give him a smile.

We smoke as Matthias busies himself with sorting the food.

Any news from my uncles? I ask, my head spinning from the tobacco.

I went and had a look at their place, Joseph tells me. There are no vehicles in the garage, the canoes are gone, and every room was completely emptied. Your aunts and uncles took everything with them. Food, tools, clothing. Everything useful. But I found this, he adds, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat. It’s a map of the region. It might prove useful.

I take it and thank him. I wonder if my aunts and uncles really intend to come back to the village. They might have left forever. Unless something happened to them.

Oh, I almost forgot the good news, Joseph adds. A woman gave birth in the village. Despite what some people feared, everything went normally. Maria was there. She’s no magician, you know, but sometimes she can work miracles. She helped deliver a little girl, Joëlle. The first child of the blackout. No one knows who the father is, but Jenny, the mother, is staying in the house by the sawmill, it’s big and there are a lot of people in there, so she’s well looked after.

Joseph stands and buttons his coat.

Next time I’ll get the snow off the roof, he promises. With everything that’s accumulated up there, it must be getting pretty heavy.

Yes, Matthias tells him, I was going to ask you about that.

Remind me when I come back. Right now, though, I’ve got to go back down the hill. Maria is waiting. I promised I’d take her ice-fishing and today’s the day.

Joseph waves goodbye and the door closes behind him as if slammed by a gust of wind.

ONE HUNDRED NINE

Matthias finishes sorting the provisions Joseph brought. He glares at the prepared food. He mutters and grumbles that he’s the cook here, but then he stows everything away carefully just the same.

It’s true, he says after making his calculations, they’ve cut back on the rations.

He pours the milk into the kettle that we use to melt snow and places it on the stove.

It has to warm up. Warm up but not boil, he tells me as he adds rennet.

He stirs the mixture, then takes the pot off the fire.

Now we have to wait.

We play a few chess games and finish off the rest of the oatmeal. Matthias wins every one. I make fun of his skill by telling him I’m letting him beat me. He lifts his chin in my direction, squints, but says nothing.

He goes over to the stove and stirs the pot with a spoon. It smells like clotted milk. Then he pours the contents through a filter made of a metal hanger and a length of cloth. The whitish mixture begins draining slowly.

I don’t let up.

I let you win every time. And you know it.

Matthias won’t react. He allows himself the shadow of a frown, and tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about, my fever must have returned. I smile, then take out the map Joseph gave me.

I examine the gradient markers, the plateaus, the river beds. I pick out the coastal villages at the top of the map, then ours, surrounded by valleys. Further on is the lake where we fished when we were kids. The two main roads are clearly visible. The one that follows the coast, and the other that cuts through the interior. I can make out the dotted lines of the logging roads that push their way into the heart of the valleys. Here and there drawings of tall grass indicate swampy zones. All the rest is forest.

I look at the scale at the bottom.

It’s enormous.

Certain sections of a river have been identified by hand. I remember having heard those names, but I can’t tell them apart. My uncles’ hunting camp must not be far, in a river bend, in the middle of the hundred-year-old cedars. I remember it very well, but I can’t locate it on the map.

That’s it, I say to myself, putting my finger on the little “x” sketched with a lead pencil. It’s there.

When I look up, Matthias is still inspecting the contents of his operation.

The texture is just right, he says, satisfied. It’s starting to look like cheese.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

In the night, I heard the little animal again. I recognized its discreet footsteps, its furtive movements, and how it was interested in the food in the cellar. It would stop to listen carefully, then probably steal back to the other side with part of our provisions. It seems to be meticulously laying up a stock of reserves for the times to come.

At first light, Matthias disassembles his production. He presses the soft white mass to extract the water, adds salt, then makes six balls as big as his fist and flattens them with great care. On the stove, in an old pot, he melts some candle-ends. He watches the wax liquefy as he removes bits of wick and blackened matches. Then he pours the hot wax over the cheeses, making sure to cover them completely.

This is one of the best ways of keeping it, he tells me.

I nod and say nothing. Then look toward the chess game.

I don’t have time, he answers. I have to go down to the village.

He carefully places the cheeses wrapped in wax in a cloth sack. He gives me a can of baked beans with a slab of black bread, loads the stove, and gets dressed quickly.

I’ll see you later, he calls, putting on his snowshoes.

Then he hurries out of the room.

Outside, the snow is reaching hungrily for the earth.

ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

It must be getting close to noon. At first the cold seemed to loosen its grip on the landscape, only to return with greater force. Meanwhile, snow keeps falling and nothing can stop it. The flakes are large and delicate. They look like they have been cut from paper.

In the stove the final embers are going out. I can feel the cold slipping under my window. The drafts have long icy hands and they move past me like shades that want to reach under my blankets.

Maria said I will be able to stand up soon. My left leg is still fragile, but with crutches I should be able to move around by myself. The next time she comes, I will go to the door to welcome her.

First I sit up straight, then slide to the edge of the bed. My legs hang uselessly. I think of my next move and contemplate the precipice before me. Gravity pulls me toward the floor. In the prison of their splints, my thighs and calves have turned to stone in their immobility. My muscles hang off my bones like flesh that even scavengers don’t want.

You are skinny and dried up. You weigh nothing at all. But you’ll figure out how to take a few steps. You’ll manage somehow, I tell myself out loud, you’re still alive, so you’ve got no choice. You have to walk.

I could go as far as the chair. Or the sofa. The chair is closer, but the crutches are behind the sofa. I could make it, even if I have to hop on my right leg instead of putting one foot in front of the other.

I just have to slide down from the bed and try to lean on the table. Nothing to it. Just make sure not to lose my balance. It would be stupid to burn myself on the stove.

At first all that seems insurmountable and I consider lying back down. But then I take a deep breath, tighten my splints, and slip down to the floor. Slowly. Very slowly, like with the icy water of a lake at the beginning of summer.

My toes touch the floor. I grab firmly onto the bedsheets but they slide with me. I feel my heart pumping. My legs stiffen and electric current travels through the marrow of my bones. The blood flows heavily through my veins, running a painful circuit from my feet to my head. There, now I’m standing. I can shuffle my feet across the floor. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The table is close by. Just steady your body long enough to get to the next support. I take a chance and put a little more weight on my left leg. I reach for the table. I’m almost there. I stretch further. I contain the pain. It’s nothing, nothing to it. I steady myself. My hand is trembling as if I were trying to lift furniture with the sheer force of my thoughts. Suddenly I go numb. The chair stands kilometres away, behind the table. My sight is narrowed by thick black blotches. Then my knees let go.

ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

The floor is dirty and cold. Dried mud, dust, pieces of bark, onion skins. The floorboards are grey beneath the chipped varnish. I don’t know how long I have been lying here. A few minutes. A few hours. It’s still light outside, but Matthias hasn’t come back.

I can’t stay like this, on the floor. I look around. I prop myself up on my elbows and crawl toward the sofa. My legs follow me like a long overcoat heavy with sludge. I make slow progress. I am sinking into the floor as I move. I keep watch over the door with the fearfulness of wild animals. The fear of being caught in a moment of vulnerability.

I don’t want Maria to see me like this.

I reach the foot of the sofa. I am out of breath and my elbows hurt. It’s hard, but I hoist myself up onto the threadbare cushions. I arrange my legs straight in front of me. Under the splint I see that the bandage on my left side is soaked with blood. I grab Matthias’s quilt and cover the bottom half of my body with it.

I am empty. As if part of me was still back on the floor. Maybe I should eat something, but now the can of baked beans is too far away.

I close my eyes a moment.

And then nothingness.

ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

I am startled awake. It is dark. Matthias puts a sack on the table, shakes the snow off his shoulders, and lights the oil lamp.

When he looks around, he sees my bed is empty. His lower jaw tightens and a vein appears on his forehead. Then when he spots me lying on the sofa, he raises his eyes and walks over to me. He slips one arm around my back and the other behind my knees and carries me to my bed the way adults do with sleeping children. Or the dying. I try to hide my bloody bandage, but Matthias sees it right away. He says nothing, but he saw it. He pulls up my blankets and tells me to get some sleep, then disappears into the other side with a candle and the sack he put on the table.

I stare at the ceiling as if gazing down into an abyss. Pain is a bird of prey that holds me in its clutches.

I feel like I’ve taken one step forward. And two steps back.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR

Someone is standing on the front step. I sit up in bed. I look toward the sofa, then the rocking chair, but I don’t see Matthias. I hear the click of the doorknob and Maria is there on the threshold. She smiles and comes to me. The morning sun fills the room as if time had stopped. I push aside my blankets, unfasten the splints, and leap to my feet. Her eyes illuminate the room. I move toward her, take off her red coat, and slip a hand around her waist. We kiss. Her mouth is warm. Our foreheads touch and our bodies entwine. I lift her gently, she clings to me, then we lie on the kitchen table. Our clothes fall to the floor with no resistance. She takes my hands and presses them against her hips, and moves them across her body. I kiss her neck, her skin is soft and a little salty. I kneel between her legs, impatient, energetic, full of desire. Our eyes thirst for each other. I take her, she bends to me, and nothing exists outside of us.

When I awake a kettle is simmering on the woodstove. It smells of meat and boiled vegetables. When he sees my eyes are open, Matthias moves the stool over and sits down in front of me as if we were about to begin a game of chess. But he is here to change my dressing.

I hide my erection under the blankets. My dream is very near, yet very far away. My left leg is giving me serious pain.

He unwraps my bandage, cleans the dried blood, disinfects the wound, and wraps it up again with the butterfly bandages at hand.

You’re lucky, the splint held your bones in place, Matthias grumbles.

Outside, the sun strikes the snow full on. The sky is cutting and the barometer reaches for it. Before my window the icicles look threatening and the snow keeps piling up. It is like a mouth closing around us.

I am completely exhausted. I feel like I will never stand up again. If winter doesn’t get me, it will be something else. I can’t do anything. Outside of a little repartee, looking out the window, and waiting. That doesn’t give much to hang onto.

Matthias grabs the pair of crutches behind the sofa and orders me to get up.

Isn’t that what you wanted? Then you’ll have to build up your strength.

I consider the two pieces of wood stuck together with little metal brackets.

We’re going to do some exercises.

Matthias lifts me up by the armpits.

Come on, you don’t want it bad enough. You need strong arms to walk on crutches. Stand straight. Do what I do.

Matthias starts by rotating his head, stretching out his arms on both sides, and breathing deeply. I imitate him the best I can, sitting on the edge of my bed. He bends his elbows, clasps his hands behind his back, and leans his torso forward.

Hold the position, he explains. Hold it and extend it. You should feel your body, you should be centred on it, push harder when it starts to hurt.

We repeat the series of movements several times over until someone knocks at the door. Matthias wheels around. More knocking.

We haven’t finished, he warns me, then goes to open the door.

At first I hope it’s Maria, but disappointment takes over when Matthias invites the visitor in. He walks into the room, leans his rifle against the wall, and puts two hares on the table. Matthias and I consult each other with a glance. Neither of us knows this man.

This is for you, the man tells us and points to the hares.

Matthias looks at the two bodies as if he were afraid they would get up and start running.

Thank you, he stammers, thank you very much. Do you want some coffee?

The visitor accepts with a nod, and when Matthias turns his back, he focuses his attention on me.

He has salt and pepper hair and a reddish beard. His face has been worn by the sun and the cold. Built close to the ground, in his fifties. Or a little older. Behind him, his rifle shines.

My name is Jean, he says. We’ve met before, but it was a long time ago. Back when I worked at the school with your mother.

It’s true. His name awakes no memories, but his face is familiar.

Matthias serves the coffee.

I knew your father too, he goes on. Everyone knew him. I’m so sorry about what happened to him. We hadn’t seen him much these last years. His garage had turned into a complete rat’s nest and he stopped pumping gas. Some people said he was losing his mind, but I thought he just felt lonely.

Leaning on the counter, Matthias chooses discretion.

We were all surprised when we heard you were back, Jean says, changing his tone. I’m happy to see you’re getting better. Maria told us you’ll soon be on your feet.

Jean takes a big gulp of coffee and glances at his watch.

Actually, I came here to ask you for a favour. We need a mechanic.

His words startle me.

At first we thought of Joseph. He’s a jack-of-all-trades. But some people can’t stand him and we never know where to find him or in what house he’s sleeping. He won’t listen to anyone. And he’s not as experienced as you. Before there was your father, but now you’re the only mechanic around.

My heart is pounding. I stare at Jean.

What do you want done?

We want to put tracks on a mini-bus so it can run in the snow. We almost have everything we need, the parts, the tools, the welding equipment. We set up shop in one of the storehouses in the old mine. When we turn on the generators, it’s as bright as day in there. A great place to work. We need someone like you.

I clear my throat. I don’t know if I’ll be up to it.

We’ll find you a wheelchair if that’s what it takes. You’ll show us how to go about it, and oversee the workers. As soon as you can stand up and take a few steps, that’ll be good enough for us. I’ll come and get you. What do you say?

The thought of being a mechanic again has my head spinning. I’m surprised they need me, but I accept without thinking twice.

Sitting down at the table, Matthias fidgets and tries to catch Jean’s eye.

What’s the mini-bus for? Are you getting ready for the expedition? Are you going to leave before spring?

Jean rubs his beard.

We’re getting ready, but we’re a long way from knowing when we’ll be able to leave.

If I can do anything to help you, you’ll let me know, Matthias offers. I’ve been promised a spot on the expedition, and I intend to be part of it.

Sure, but for the time being, the main thing is to keep taking care of him, Jean tells him, pointing his chin in my direction.

I have to get back to town, Matthias insists, my wife is there.

For a moment, I picture the arteries of the city, completely blocked by pile-ups of abandoned cars.

Yeah, I understand, Jean says, visibly irritated. Have you heard the latest news? he asks, wanting to change the subject.

Curious, Matthias and I wait for what will come next.

A few days ago, three people showed up in the village in the middle of the night. None of us knew them. They were starving and suffering from frostbite. We took them in and did our best for them. They told us they lived in a village on the coast. They were well organized there, but then looting started, and the situation fell apart fast. They had to escape. Their snowmobile broke down three days’ walk from here. There were four of them at the beginning, but one of them froze to death. Jude assigned them a house, but he wants us to keep an eye on them. He doesn’t trust them because they have an accent that’s not from here.

What else did they say? Matthias asks, intrigued. Do they know what’s happening elsewhere? Like in the city? Do they know if the electricity has come back anywhere?

They told us their story more than once when they showed up, but since then they haven’t been too talkative.

That’s normal, I put in.

Jean agrees, nodding his head.

In the meantime, he continues, in the village the supplies are starting to drop. Jude asked everyone to make an effort, and we agreed to tighten the rations. That doesn’t please everyone, but that’s the way it goes. And that shouldn’t stop people from doing like me and setting snares.

Jean gets to his feet and slings the rifle over his shoulder. Then he tells me again to rest up and get stronger.

You should know that there are some bad cases of the flu in the village. You live up here, but be careful all the same. We’re starting to run out of medicine, and that complicates things.

Jean heads for the door, and Matthias thanks him for the hares. My pleasure, Jean says. He’ll bring us more when he can. Then he takes a last look in my direction. He’ll come and get me once they have all the materials they need.

Don’t worry, Matthias answers for me, he’ll be on his feet.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR

Matthias rolls up his sleeves and puts the hares on the counter.

I don’t know if I remember how to do this, he admits, turning them over. They are stiff with cold and rigor mortis. My father used to cook them in the lumber camps, way back when, but that was a long time ago.

I remember perfectly. My uncles used to ask me to fix the hares they caught. You have to delicately pull away the skin behind the shanks. Then you hold the back legs in one hand and pull on the fur that you’ve turned inside out.

While I peel potatoes, Matthias labours away, trying to pull off the skin completely, since the flesh is still frozen. Once that is done, he chops off the head with a hatchet, opens the belly, and empties the cavity. The guts smell strong. The smell of blood, and the forest after it has rained. Turning his head away, Matthias asks if I will be able to help them prepare the expedition.

We’ll see, I tell him, I certainly hope so. I’m even willing to do your exercises if they’ll help me recuperate faster.

I’m not talking about that. I mean the mechanic work, putting tracks on the minibus. Can you do that?

For ten years, I repaired dump trucks bigger than houses. Converting a minibus into a snowmobile, if I have the right parts, tools, and electricity, that shouldn’t be a problem. I can do more than peel potatoes, you know.

Matthias cuts the hares into pieces and puts everything into a big pot with oil and vegetables.

Anyway, you don’t really have the choice, he tells me suddenly. You owe us that, to me and everyone else. We saved your life. And it looks like I’m not the only one who wants to go to the city before the snow melts. So it works out perfect. I’ll be able to go back to my wife. Waiting for spring makes no sense, the snow isn’t going to stop falling, and at my age, you know, if a man has all the time he needs, it’s because there isn’t much left.

I think about that. Outside, the horizon has swallowed the sun. The sky is still clear, but the light is weakening.

As the meal cooks on the fire, we play a game of chess. Matthias wins, as usual. He is too satisfied to offer me a revenge match, and he retreats to his rocking chair with a book.

After a time I ask him what Jacques gave him in exchange for the cheese.

The question takes him by surprise. He drops his book onto his lap, then tells me Jacques let him choose whatever he wanted from the store’s inventory.

What did you take?

Matthias hesitates.

A weapon.

A weapon?

Yes, to defend myself, if ever…

You know how to use it?

Jacques showed me how.

I say nothing more and look out the window instead. In the sky, above the mountains, only a white line remains upon which the blue of night has come to rest.

A little later, when Matthias sets the dish on the table, an enticing smell fills the air. I get to my feet, leaning on my crutches, and make it to my chair without his help – or almost. I protest, but he insists on steadying me when I sit down. But that doesn’t matter.

The meat is nicely browned and swims in a thick sauce. Before serving, Matthias clasps his hands and closes his eyes. This time the ceremony lasts no more than a second, and then he quickly dips the spoon into the pot.

Be careful, he warns me, these things are full of little bones.

We dig into the meal. We pull away the meat from the bones with our hands, and the sauce drips everywhere and sticks to our beards.

If you want it to be tender and the flavours to really come out, you have to cook it a long time, he tells me, his mouth full.

I laugh at him and let him know I want him to serve me some more. He leans over the pot and licks his fingers. Suddenly he freezes and lets out a strange rattle. I look up. His eyes are enormous as if he had seen a ghost. He stands up, knocking over his chair, and grabs at his throat. His eyes dart wildly around the room. His mouth opens but makes no sound. He pounds his chest with both hands. Big drops of saliva pool on his lower lip. The veins of his neck swell. I try to go to his side, leaning on my right leg and hanging onto the table. His face is turning blue. His pupils dilate and go black. I try to get his attention as I move closer. He is moving in all directions at once. I yell at him to stop. He doesn’t seem to hear me. His hands open and close as if he were trying to grasp something. He hits his chest, but his movements are incoherent. I know there’s a manoeuvre you’re supposed to do, you have to stand behind the person and squeeze his stomach. But I’m still so weak, I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.

Stand in front of me, I tell him, panicking. Matthias, look at me! Stay put! Stop moving!

I punch him as hard as I can in the stomach. He takes the blow, bends in two, but nothing happens. When he straightens up again, I throw a second punch, harder this time. I can feel my knuckles push into his skinny stomach and reach his diaphragm. A small bone flies from his mouth like a bullet and he falls to the floor, gasping for breath.

For the next two or three seconds, total silence. Then he starts breathing noisily, choking, vomiting, his whole body shaking.

I feel enormous relief, then realize I am standing on my own feet, pointing skyward like a rocket, for the first time. Meanwhile, at my feet, Matthias is like an old steam locomotive, labouring and coughing.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT

Snow crystals sketch out the slender contours of the trees. The flakes descend in straight lines, falling in tight formation, both light and heavy. The snow has climbed to the bottom of my window and is pressing against the glass. It is like water rising in a room from which there is no escape.

With my spyglass, I saw that an animal had come close to the house. Nothing very big. A fox. Maybe a lynx. Some animal come to devour the remains of the hares that Matthias threw outside yesterday evening after recuperating from his misadventure. The tracks are fresh, but soon the snow will cover them. Through the trees I can make out houses, but with all the snow they seem to be shrinking with each passing day. Settling into the earth. I spy on the village for a while. But nothing is moving. Maria is not going from house to house to look after people, Joseph is not carrying out his repairs, and no one seems to be coming to get me.

When he awoke at dawn, Matthias was back on his feet as if nothing had happened. He did his exercises, washed the dishes, and made black bread. But a shadow had fallen over his face.

We started a chess game more than an hour ago and it is still not finished. When it is his move, he evaluates every possibility at length. He reminds me of a weakened fighter who no longer trusts his instincts.

The room is quiet. The purring of the woodstove is the only sound. I question the lines in the palms of my hands, knowing very well that nothing and no one can help us predict our fate. Next to my bed, the chessboard holds its breath. Even if he is not in top shape, Matthias will end up checkmating me and winning the match. That is the only certainty I have.

ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN

Over the last few days, I have felt my body adjust to its new reality. My arms are growing stronger. My shoulders have straightened. When I remove my splints, my legs bend with greater ease. Only the wound on my left leg has not completely healed. The pain is slowly lessening, but the discomfort and numbness remain.

Still, with my crutches, I can change positions, I can lean and lift and swing my body. Like a wounded bird, I find a way to move. Not for long but long enough. Even if I sway and nearly topple, I can urinate on my own. When I am feeling strong, I execute a few round trips across the room.

We are still playing chess. Matthias says nothing. I have to stop myself from shouting: I have just checkmated him. His king is prisoner between my bishop and my knight. There is no escape.

When he realizes it, he looks up. He smiles a moment, then his face shuts down like a door being slammed. He puts away the game, sets his rocking chair by the stove, and packs snow into the kettle to melt.

I look toward the window. The sky is impatient. The barometer is pointing down. A few snowflakes float in the air, as if waiting for reinforcements before the attack.

Matthias sighs.

I’ve got nothing more to do here, he says. You might be getting better with each passing day, but I’m sinking lower. My wife is waiting, I know, I can feel it. She’s waiting for me and I can’t do anything about it, just look after you and watch the snow fall.

He takes the water off the stove, but when he lifts the kettle, one of the handles comes off and the whole thing falls to the floor in a cloud of steam. When the fog blows away, Matthias appears like a giant lighthouse above the reefs. A lighthouse, giant but no longer useful. For a moment, his face contorts and his fists clench as if he were trying to contain himself. Then he kicks the kettle as hard as he can and it goes flying noisily into the far corner of the room.

It’s nothing, he tells me, even before I can react, it’s nothing.

One of his thighs is soaked and still steaming. He goes out the door, pulls down his pants, and applies a snow compress to the burn. When he comes back into the porch, he asks me to help bandage his thigh.

As I grab my crutches and move to the table, he explains in great detail how to go about it.

It’s all right, I tell him, I know how to wrap a bandage, I’ve watched you change mine often enough.

He was lucky. The burn looks superficial. The skin is red and oozing, but there is no blister, not yet. It must be sensitive, but in a couple weeks there won’t even be a scar.

For lunch we eat hard-boiled eggs in silence, each in his own world. Later in the day, Matthias goes over to the other side and comes back with a toolbox. He sets it on the table next to the banged-up kettle and asks me to repair the handle that gave way. I pull the toolbox over and open it. The hinges creak softly. Inside the tools glitter. The wrenches, the hammer, the pliers, they shine like gold coins dug up from a royal tomb. He watches my reaction as if it were of the greatest importance.

You won’t be able to fix a dump truck with that, he says, pointing, or modify a minibus, but it’s enough to see whether you still like your trade. Maybe that’s what will save us. You won’t just be a cripple anymore, and I’ll be able to get back to town.

I say nothing. I go about fixing the handle of the kettle, completely convinced that, whatever we do, whichever way we choose, our actions and decisions will be meaningless.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

The day is bright. The sky has deepened. The wind died down.

Matthias is in the rocking chair. He has a book in his hand, but he hasn’t opened it. I practice balancing on my crutches. Suddenly there is the high-pitched whir of a motor. Matthias gets up and we both move to the window. A snowmobile is climbing the slope in our direction. A minute later the door swings open and Joseph steps inside with his arms loaded down with sacks and cartons. Matthias pulls on his coat to help him bring in the rest.

I would like to help too, but with my crutches all I can do is drag myself from one place to the other.

When they come back inside with the last of the provisions, Joseph declares that there is no use clearing the roof of snow. Matthias looks at him, surprised.

It’ll take me two days to shovel off all that, he explains, and I’d have to start all over anyway. I’d rather reinforce the ceiling beams, understand, the way they do in hunting camps before winter. That’s the best solution.

I notice two butterfly bandages above his eyebrow. Exactly like what I have on my left leg, but smaller.

I’ve got to find wood for the supports. And I’ll need help, Joseph says, pointing at me. You coming? It’ll do you good, I’m sure.

I pull myself onto my crutches. A wave of happiness flows over me.

Go ahead, take my coat and boots, Matthias offers as he opens one of the boxes of provisions.

Joseph is quick about getting me into Matthias’s clothes. Once he succeeds, he hands me my crutches and we go out.

It’s the first time I have been outside since the beginning of winter. The snow is dazzling.

And with that thought, I take my first step, and the tips of my crutches sink into the snow. I fall face first in front of the door. Joseph laughs at me a second, then leans over, grabs me with both arms, and sets me on the back of his yellow snowmobile.

Hang on tight, he tells me.

The motor roars to life. And we’re gone. I look behind and catch Matthias watching us move away before shutting the door. From this angle the other side of the house looks enormous compared to the porch buried in snow.

The cold air stings. It makes my eyelashes stick together and pinches my nostrils. It burns my lungs. We reach the line of the forest. It is more imposing than I imagined. We take a path that snakes between the trees. The way is completely virgin, smooth, and white. On each side, the spruce bend low with snow. When the path curves, Joseph accelerates so the snowmobile will not bog down and dig a trap for itself in the quicksand of snow. We come into a small clearing. I recognize this spot. Joseph slows down and stops the machine on a little rise where the wind has hardened the snow.

In front of us are targets nailed onto the tree trunks. We are at the shooting range at the foot of the mountain. A few kilometres from the village.

The winter silence is deafening.

Joseph pulls a bottle from his coat, takes a good hit, then hands the bottle to me.

You know, he says, turning to me, this is where our fathers and our uncles came to tune up their rifles every year, at the end of the summer. Us kids used to follow them, remember? They parked their vehicles at the entrance, over there, and they walked here with their cases in their hands. They would open them up and fire at the targets. We weren’t very old back then. But I remember the sound of the rifle shots. They never drank here. It was a rule. No need for anything artificial at the moment of truth, they used to say.

I watch birds quarrelling over a spot on the branches of a pine tree.

Your uncles were completely right, Joseph states, gazing at the forest around us, it was the right thing to leave before the snow fell. Life in the village isn’t easy, you know. When those outsiders showed up, Jude insisted we go back to our watchman duties. I suppose you heard about that?

Yes, Jean told us.

Did he tell you that at first Jude refused to put them up more than one night? Even José didn’t want to give them medicine. We had to convince them that they weren’t criminals and that we had enough food for three more people.

We smoke a cigarette, sending thick spirals into the crystal air. The shooting range looks like a narrow lake caught in the snow’s embrace.

Jude is getting hard to figure out. Maybe everyone is. The snow weighs heavily on our little lives. He’s got a new project, I hear. With Jean, José, and some others, he wants to turn a minibus into a snowmobile. Do you realize? That’ll never work! Even if they manage to do it, how far will they get? That kind of machine burns way too much gas. They’ll empty the village supply and end up running out of gas a hundred kilometres further on. Then what’ll they do? Go looking for help? When they didn’t even want to help a few strangers who showed up here! They don’t understand the only thing they’ll find out there is frigid cold and the wind off the sea. Unless they head for the city and rob everyone they come across on the way there. I bet they’re going to come looking for you to help them install the tracks. You’re the only mechanic for miles around. I told them to get lost every time they brought up the subject, he mutters, lifting the bottle to his mouth.

I take a long drag off my cigarette and tell Joseph I should have done like him and become a carpenter.

Forget about it, he sighs, that wouldn’t have changed anything. But you’d be better off not getting mixed up in that minibus business. Matthias should be careful too. The last few meetings have been pretty stormy. Some people want Jude to open the books. Other people want us to vote on every decision made. I’m trying to keep my distance, but events keep pulling me in. Judith died last week. She never got over the flu. There were complications. She was in terrible pain and José helped her cross over. Her family buried her not far from the village, in the snow. It was sad, what with her two small children. She got the flu, her temperature rose and it never came down. Even with the medicine. Ever since people get scared when they hear someone cough. Some of them are afraid of Maria, you know, because she has a lot of contact with the sick.

Joseph throws away his cigarette butt and hands me the bottle. With two free hands, he quickly sharpens the chainsaw.

And with all that, he shakes his head, pointing to his eyebrow, José knows I’m sleeping with Maria.

I ask him for another cigarette.

Everyone ends up knowing everything in a village, he continues, handing me his pack. He’s been tailing her ever since. Maria can’t take it anymore, he doesn’t want to understand what’s going on, and I’m discouraged. I’m suffocating here, this place is killing me.

Joseph gets up, goes to the edge of the clearing, and starts up the chainsaw.

We’ll take that cedar there, he shouts over the stuttering motor.

When he leans under the skirt of the tree, the chainsaw roars and sends out a bluish cloud. The cedar falls. Joseph trims off the branches, and cuts three even sections of log. I stand up to help put them in the sled, but he shakes me off. That won’t be necessary.

When he sits back down on the snowmobile, I smell the scent of fresh sawdust on his coat.

You know, he says, going back to his story and motioning me to give him the bottle, Matthias wants to leave this place. With or without anyone’s help. That’s no secret. And he’s not the only one. But Matthias wouldn’t last more than three days on the road. If the cold doesn’t get him, some militia will. Whether he has a weapon or not, that won’t change anything. He wants to get back with his wife, but like everybody else, he has no idea what’s going on anywhere else. And with all the supplies I’ve brought you, he should just sit still for the next little while.

What about you? I inquire. What are you going to do?

I don’t know, Joseph says, looking away, I don’t know. What would you do in my shoes?

I shrug my shoulders and think of the topographical map. I came all the way here to see my father, but I showed up too late. My aunts and uncles left for their hunting camp and never came back. I’m living with a stranger who wants to leave as quickly as he can. I don’t know what’s keeping me here, outside of the fact that I can hardly stand up.

We empty the bottle in silence, then Joseph starts up the snowmobile, and we speed away through the woods.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

By the time we pull up in front of the porch, I am frozen stiff. I can’t even lift myself off the seat. Joseph picks me up in his arms and carries me inside. I slump in the rocking chair by the fire, and weakness overtakes me. As if the cold wanted to keep me in its embrace. I hope I won’t get sick like the others in the village.

Matthias is still sorting supplies with great enthusiasm.

I thought you’d cut back on the provisions, he says. But there’s beef, a whole duck, maple syrup, pâté, dried mushrooms, all kinds of things. There’s even coffee.

I’m glad you’re happy, Joseph tells him as he measures the distance between the floor and the ceiling beams.

Matthias expresses amazement when he discovers two bottles of wine.

Why all this? And why now?

Little by little, my blood warms enough to start flowing through my body. But the pins and needles are intolerable. I can barely follow what the two are saying.

Jude isn’t the only one with a secret stash, Joseph points out. I wanted you to enjoy a little. Why not? But don’t talk about it, it might cause trouble. Once, Jude locked Jacques up for two days.

What happened?

I wasn’t there when it happened. Some people say that Jacques pointed a gun at someone who owed him some gas. Other people think it’s just a plot. He was let go, but it’s going to end badly if you ask me.

Matthias thanks Joseph and promises he will be discreet. But he tries to get more information about what happened with Jacques.

His whole arsenal was seized. Jude says it’s too risky to have weapons circulating. That sooner or later, someone will make a wrong move.

The snowmobile ride completely exhausted me. My neck muscles droop and I lose a large part of the conversation. When I can finally lift my head, Joseph is installing the cedar planks beneath the central beams.

That won’t straighten them up, he admits, driving in long nails with expert hammer blows, but it will keep them from sagging more. Now the clouds can dump their load on you, and you should be all right.

As I fight sleep, Joseph picks up his things. When he finishes he hands Matthias a key ring with a small plastic moose on it.

What’s this? Matthias asks.

A present. If you’re still here when the snow has melted, at least you’ll have access to a car. Third house on the left before the edge of the village, you know, right next to the arena. Third house on the left, he repeats, in the garage.

What about the expedition?

I think Jude and the others are seeing to the preparations, but I don’t really know how far they’ve gone. I’m sure you’ll hear about it before I do.

When Joseph puts his hand on my shoulder to say goodbye, I jump as if he had disturbed me in the midst of a dream.

I have to go. Get some rest. Rest up and eat your fill, it’s no time to give up. Your endurance is better already. I bet the next time we meet, you’ll be walking.

I doubt it, I answer, thinking he is making fun of me.

Before going out the door, Joseph turns around and looks at us in disbelief. A few moments later, we hear him rev up his engine, then speed off.

Before I can make it to my bed, my head drops to my chest and I fall into a deep, gnarled sleep.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

I wake up in the middle of the night with stomach pains. We ate too much. While I napped Matthias cooked the duck and put the best canned goods on the table. Artichoke hearts, smoked oysters, snails, roasted red peppers. He woke me up, we sat down at the table and devoured as much as we could. It was a change from soup and black bread.

Outside, a cold moon shines through the clouds. Its beams of light penetrate the darkest reaches of the room. On both sides of the window, shadows play. Joseph’s reinforcement posts look like trees growing through the ceiling. Or magical beanstalks that have sprung up in the gaps between the floorboards.

Everything is still. Time is suspended from the night. Both are immobile. Like my legs in their splints. I try to fall asleep again, I think of life in the village, of Joseph and Maria. I think of my uncles. I wonder what they had on their table tonight, in the middle of the forest. As my eyelids slowly close, the little monster returns to gnaw on my sleep. I hear it scurrying around on the other side, gathering up all it can. I’d like to hunt it down with my slingshot and a flashlight. On crutches that would not be easy. I lean on my elbows and spot light coming from under the door that leads to the other side. I examine the moonlit room. Three cedar posts support the heavens, the table is there, the rocking chair, the sofa. The sofa. The sofa where Matthias’s blankets are carefully folded, undisturbed. The trap door to the cellar is open. What is he doing? What is he up to on the other side at this time of night? I hear him walking, stopping, starting again. I hear him turning things over, rummaging around, busying himself. That’s it, I get it. I’ve identified the little animal that pilfers our supplies at night. I know what it is doing: preparing its departure.

The noise drops off for a time, my stomach pains subside, and slowly I find sleep again.

Very early the next morning, when I awake, Matthias is asleep on the sofa. He awakes as soon as he hears me moving around. Outside, the sky is flooded with light though the sun has yet to lift itself above the horizon. There must not be any embers left in the stove because the room has lost its heat. I wrap myself in my blankets and listen to Matthias’s calm breathing. I could use a coffee.

The distant growl of an engine attracts my attention. I pick up my spyglass. In the clear, cold dawn, I spot a yellow snowmobile moving at top speed. It is following the dark line of the forest. There are two people on board. The driver holds the handles tightly and his eyes seem to be probing the distance. The person with him is wearing a red coat. She keeps glancing behind and holds onto the driver as if he is her best hope. Once they climb the slope of the hill, they turn onto a logging road and disappear. I lower my spyglass and think that without Joseph and Maria life in the village won’t be the same. And mine won’t be the same either.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

The sun has been up for a while now, but the sky clouded up through the morning. The barometer is pointing at the ground. The air is heavy. I can see its weight. The snow has lost its lustre. In the village, smoke issues from the chimneys, climbs, levels off, then settles to the ground. As if it could not lift itself to the sky. Here and there flakes of ash fall to earth and form small black constellations against the infinite whiteness.

Once he has hung the washing above the stove, Matthias inspects the reinforcement posts. They help me move from the bed to the table without crutches, but still the poles get in the way. They cut back on Matthias’s space when he brings in wood, sets the table, and does his exercises.

Are they going to hold up? he asks in a doubtful tone.

They’ll hold up, I tell him. They’re Joseph’s work.

Matthias feeds the stove, opens the cellar door, and takes out a few items. I watch him rub his hands together, satisfied, before starting to cook. I ask him if an animal has been helping itself to our supplies.

No, he answers, I don’t think so. I didn’t see anything.

I heard noise during the night, I pursue.

Impossible. I didn’t hear anything. Not last night or any other night.

He sets the food on the counter and closes the cellar door.

You must have been dreaming, he says sharply. Forget about it, get up, we’re going to do our exercises.

I drop the subject and prepare for battle. I get to my feet, avoiding putting weight on my left leg. We begin. We stretch our arms toward the ceiling and rotate our wrists, and we breathe in. We bend our knees, keeping our spines perfectly straight, and breathe out. In the middle of the session, the church bells begin ringing. The echo returns from the distant mountains. It is the village alarm. Something has happened. I take my spyglass and look toward the village. Through the trees, nothing. The bells keep ringing. Finally they stop, and everything goes back to normal. According to Matthias someone will come and alert us if it’s serious. If not, Joseph will tell us what happened.

A little later we hear the simultaneous growling of several snowmobiles. We rush to the window. There are three of them. One of them is moving through the village, the other is going past the forest, and the third is heading in our direction.

That must be Joseph, Matthias speculates, and takes the spyglass from me.

Unless it’s Jean coming for me, I add.

The sound of the engine grows louder. The door opens. It’s José. With him is a guy and a young woman. All three are armed. Matthias beckons them to sit down at the table, but they don’t bother answering.

Over there, José says, pointing at the door to the other side.

The guy pushes open the door and disappears.

Matthias wants to know why the church bells rang.

We’re looking for Maria, José answers. Have you seen her by any chance?

She hasn’t been here for a while, Matthias says.

There are snowmobile tracks out front, José insists, his voice hostile, and they’re recent.

Joseph stopped by a few days ago.

Was he with Maria? José questions us.

No, why?

Was he with Maria? he turns and asks me.

No. Guaranteed.

Behind him, the young woman is positioned in front of the door, holding her rifle in both hands. The guy comes back from the other side, shaking his head.

You looked everywhere? José wants to know.

Yes.

Everywhere?

Yes. Everywhere.

They’re not there?

No, they’re not there.

Shit, José swears. And in there, what’s in there? he asks, pointing to the trap door to the cellar.

Our supplies, Matthias tells him, tension creeping into his voice. We keep our stuff there so the mice don’t get at it.

José nods, then inspects the ceiling reinforcements.

Sorry to disturb you.

Matthias takes a step in his direction and asks again what this is all about.

Someone sliced off part of his ankle with an axe, he answers, motioning his companions to head for the door. We need Maria, but we can’t find her. She can’t be far. You two are sure you haven’t seen her?

Absolutely, Matthias repeats.

José sighs, then exits with his friends as quickly as they arrived.

I wonder if you can survive an axe in your ankle. And if Maria could have saved that person the way she saved me.

Outside, the snowmobiles have left bluish furrows. The snow has started falling again, covering the tracks with a thin layer of silence.

ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-SEVEN

As I circumnavigate the table several times on my crutches, Matthias pours hot water into a bowl and rubs soap on his cheeks. His movements are slow and precise as he runs the razor over his skin. He rinses his face, wipes it, and looks at himself in the mirror. He might look a few years younger, but his features haven’t changed. The skin of his neck still looks like a snow drift that has withered under the late winter rains.

As I go around the edge of the table, a drop of water hits my forehead. I stop. Another drop falls. I step back and examine the ceiling. Drops are running along a beam toward the middle of the room. They stretch, hang, then let go. One at a time, unhurried, before breaking apart on the floor. I picture the thick sheet of ice that must have formed without us knowing, right above our heads. With the heat of the stove, the snow must have compacted, hardened, and formed a thick block. Now it is preventing the roof from shedding its water normally. The posts can stand up to heavy loads, but water always ends up going where it wants to.

Matthias turns in my direction and I point to the leak. He watches it attentively, then pivots and places a metal bucket on the floor.

There, he says.

The drops tick off every second as if we were prisoners of a water clock. And our days were numbered.

By the end of the day, the bucket is overflowing and a small puddle has formed on the floor. As he kneels down to soak up the water, Matthias cries out softly as if someone had struck him. He leans heavily on his knees and does not move for several minutes. When I try to help him, he raises a hand.

It’ll be all right, he says, bent double. I threw out my back but I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.

He insists on sponging up the rest of the water. His movements are jerky, as if his limbs had rusted. Darkness settles over the room. I stretch out my hand and reach the oil lamp, then hold it in my hands a moment.

Light it, Matthias tells me. No use waiting for a genie to appear.

I slip a match under the glass chimney and adjust the wick. When I get onto my crutches to go to the counter, Matthias moves toward me, bent like an uprooted tree. He blocks me. I tell him to let me past. And rest up while I make something to eat. He screams. No way that’s going to happen. The kitchen is his space, his space alone. My space is the bed and the chair. And that’s that. Even if he can’t lift his eyes from the floor, he waves his arms in the air and orders me to go back and sit down, his voice both harsh and fragile. I retreat, listening to the drops of water beating on my patience with a disturbing sameness.

Matthias mutters to himself as he makes the meal. He is like an old moose, stubborn and grizzled, beating his hooves on the ground at the slightest pretext. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, convinced that this room will soon be too small for the both of us.

ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR

Even before I open my eyes, I hear the sound of dishes and the slap of soapy water.

I awake.

And am surprised to see Matthias already up, in tip-top shape, back straight. He is washing and drying the plates and pots he has piled on the counter. Amazingly, he seems to have recovered from his back problems. He is whistling a familiar tune, and he brings me a cup of coffee and toast. I quickly swallow down breakfast, then sip the coffee and watch the leaky ceiling. In the night, when the fire burned down into embers and the cold returned to haunt our dreams, I woke suddenly and noticed the water wasn’t dripping. The drops had called off their parade. But as soon as we heated up the stove, they went back to their procession, just where they had left off.

With dizzying energy, Matthias shovels the entryway, brings in the wood, and kneads the dough to make black bread.

A beautiful day out there, he tells me, his words coming quickly.

Just as I decide to stand up and put my crutches to work, a snowmobile pulls up in front of the porch. Matthias hurries to open the door, and Jean walks into the room.

Today’s the day, he announces. You’re ready?

Matthias looks at me, two thumbs up. He tells me supper will be ready when I return.

You see, everything will work out, Jean adds.

Matthias helps me get out of my splints, then I put on his coat, snow pants, and boots. His hands are shaking more than usual.

You’ll be all right, he says, wrapping a scarf around my neck, you can go now. But your crutches, you’ll need your crutches.

He won’t have to use them, Jean says, lifting me by the armpits.

Matthias watches us go out the door, blinking his eyes and wiping his forehead. As I go, I realize there is a vial of pills on the edge of the counter. The analgesics I used to take when the pain was unbearable. The container is empty, like a gourd whose last drop has been drunk.

ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR

The warehouse door opens with a crash. We go inside and darkness envelopes us. Jean whistles twice. The place is cavernous and sound bounces off the sheet-metal walls. Then I hear the growl of a generator, and fluorescent tubes light up one after the other above our heads.

In front of me, five guys are staring as if they had seen a ghost. I recognize some of their faces, but time has worked on them. I have been away for a long time and we have become strangers again. One of them brings me a swivel chair and tells me he was there when they found me after the accident.

I’m glad to see you’re getting better.

Yeah, I say, but it’s taking time.

At least you don’t have to do night watchman duties, he teases me.

And you’re lucky. You’ve got the prettiest woman in the village looking after you, another guy points out as his friends laugh.

All right, that’s enough, Jean orders them, pushing my chair among the tool boxes. Let’s get to work.

The minibus is sitting on wood blocks. In the front, long metal skis have been fastened to the suspension. In the back, they have taken the wheels off and an impressive pair of tracks are waiting to be fitted on. I understand why Joseph said it would never work.

This is where we’re at. Not bad, huh?

I glance at Jean, scratch my head, then lower myself out of my chair carefully. I slide under the minibus by hanging onto the tailpipe. I ask them to bring me light. I check how solid the axles are, what shape the suspension is in, and the brakes. While I’m underneath, one of the guys leans over me.

I thought you left here so you wouldn’t have to be a mechanic like your father.

I turn and take a good look at him, then ask him to pass me a monkey wrench.

He does my bidding, but hands me more questions along with the tool.

Where were you all that time? Ten years is a while. What were you doing?

I tell him I was doing what I could to change my life.

Why did you come back? Because of the power being out?

No. To visit my father.

Jean kneels down to see what is happening. He motions to his pal to let me work in peace. In the yellow beam of light, his face looks harsher than usual. I wonder how this man was with young children, back before the power went off, when he was a teacher.

As I check one last detail, the smell of gas, the texture of grease, and the inky black of metal carry me far back in time. I don’t know if my father would have agreed to come here. I don’t think so, but I’m sure he would have used the situation to make a deal to his advantage.

When I finish they help me crawl out of there and sit back on the chair. Jean and his friends await my verdict. They stand with their arms hanging at their sides. I turn and look at the vehicle. The project is insane. It is like a ship. A ship of fools. A Noah’s Ark. As if the clouds in the sky were about to open and drown everything.

I don’t know why you need a machine like that.

Jean tells me it’s for expeditions to replenish our supplies.

Snowmobiles are good, he goes on, but we need cargo space to transport material and people. We need a vehicle that can handle the snow.

I get it. But I bet you don’t have adapters for the tracks.

Jean and his men give each other empty looks.

We’ll have to drill through the hubs.

They all agree, but nothing happens. I repeat myself.

We’ll have to drill through the hubs.

Jean issues orders to the men. One of them takes out a drill, another groups together the toolboxes next to us, and a third unrolls an extension cord to our worksite. I point to the guy I was talking to and tell him to come over.

Listen up. I want you to drill the holes exactly where I tell you. And delicately, without forcing the motor or busting the bit.

He nods, settles in, and begins drilling through the metal. As I keep an eye on him, I explain to Jean how we are going to go about it. He asks me for the details of every step to make sure he has understood.

Do you think we’ll finish today?

Maybe. We’ll see.

Glowing, Jean puts his hand on my shoulder and proudly declares I am the right man for the job.

ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR

Jean drives me home under the dark sky. We speed along as the headlights split the night. Beneath the snow, I sense the old mining site and the giant plateau created by the slag. Unlike Joseph, Jean drives the snowmobile in a jerky fashion, and I am afraid we will bog down every time we take a turn. Finally, we reach the porch. Matthias is standing in the open door. Without stopping the motor, Jean waves him to come over and get me. He moves toward us, his footing unsure in the snow.

The wind’s come up, he calls, his voice barely audible over the motor. A storm’s coming.

Jean nods, evasive. As soon as I slip down from the snowmobile and Matthias has steadied me with one arm, Jean hits the gas and heads down to the village.

So? Matthias asks me once we are inside.

We didn’t stop once all day, I say, looking at my hands blackened with oil and dust. I’m hungry.

Is it going to work?

It should.

What’s it look like?

Like a minibus, only with skis and tracks. A Snow Ark.

Matthias thinks about that for a time.

As I rub my legs, I watch the leak. We are going to have to plug it or find some way to lessen the sound of dripping water.

How are your legs?

Hard as rocks, but the pain isn’t too bad. And your back?

As good as new, he tells me, but I can see the glaze of analgesics in his eyes.

Matthias serves me a plate of noodles.

Did they say when the expedition is leaving?

No. The minibus is still in the warehouse. They have to run a few tests, inside.

Will they need you for that?

I suppose so.

So they won’t be leaving right away. Was Jude with you?

No.

But Jean told you he’d save a spot for me, right?

We worked all day, I don’t remember everything that was said. You’ll work it out with them.

I mop up the sauce with a piece of bread. Matthias has nothing more to say. He contemplates the drops of water falling from the ceiling.

ONE HUNDRED NINETY-TWO

The storm has been blowing for a week. The wind twists the trees and whips the falling snow. You can’t tell whether it is coming from the sky or rising up from the earth.

The last few days, I have scarcely gotten out of bed. In the morning I massage my legs, do a few exercises, then lie down again. There is nothing else to do.

The roof is still leaking. We have stopped melting snow on the stove. We get the water straight from the leak. It is transparent, but has a strange taste, the flavour of the wood through which it has passed.

Matthias cooks all the time, as if he was trying to fill the void by making things to fill our stomachs. Again today he made black bread. This time he added meat and dried fruit and a good helping of fat. The mixture has been on the stove top since morning, and he feeds the fire carefully, slowly, to keep from burning his little slabs of black bread and meat.

It’s not black bread, it’s pemmican, that’s not the same thing, he tells me.

When he finally puts his slabs of pemmican on the table, he looks particularly satisfied.

You can survive on pemmican for a long time, he says, a few mouthfuls are as good as a meal. That’s what the explorers took with them when they headed up the rivers.

Outside, the storm rages and bangs against the porch. It howls in the chimney and whips the snow around. Then it knocks at the window and roars. We watch the show with calculated indifference. Suddenly we hear what sounds like a voice. Someone is calling from the other side of the door. Matthias is intrigued and opens up. Jonas is there. He comes in, shaking snow off his shoulders, and pulls the rocking chair toward the stove and sits down. He rubs his hands and holds them close to the heat. He stays there for some time, the way our ancestors did for thousands of years. Finally Jonas turns in our direction, moving his fingers with difficulty, the icicles in his beard slowly melting, his turquoise coat shiny with water. He opens his mouth to speak, but his thought seems to have deserted him, because he says nothing for a minute, hypnotized by the drops falling from the ceiling into the pail.

It’s cold, he says in the end. And the snow, it’s just not stopping. You did the right thing with those posts, you never know. I heard that a little further up, in the forest, there’s twice as much snow. Twice as much snow, can you picture that?

Matthias raises his eyebrows, and I try to imagine my uncles’ camp buried under four metres of snow.

What’s that stuff? Jonas asks, pointing at the pemmican on the table.

Try some, Matthias tells him.

He picks up a piece, weighs it, then bites into it with his few remaining teeth.

It’s a good storm, he goes on, his mouth full, a good storm. But we’ve seen storms before. There are storms every winter. That’s the way it is. Life goes on. Storms don’t stop anyone. The proof is that they left just as it was starting.

Who left? Matthias wastes no time asking.

Jonas stops chewing a moment.

Jude, Jean, José, and the others.

In the minibus?

Yes, in the minibus, you should have seen it, that machine, floating on top of the snow, that’s what it looked like, like that boat in the Bible.

Matthias’s face darkens.

Did they go to the city?

I don’t know. They left, they left to look for food, gas, medicine most of all, for the sick people who can’t get over the flu. I met them just before they left. We were the only ones outside because of the wind. I asked if I could go with them. To sell my empty bottles. They said yes, but next time. I insisted, I’m not afraid of blizzards. They told me they were enough as it was and that they wouldn’t be gone long. I went home before I got too cold. They’ll be back soon and I’ll be on the next one, the next expedition.

How long ago did they leave? Matthias wants to know, caught off guard.

I don’t know, Jonas says, thinking hard. It must be four or five days ago, yes, I think so. Whatever it is, we’re expecting them any time now. We can’t wait to see them. The village is empty without them. And ration day is coming fast.

He takes a big bite from his pemmican.

It’s good, he compliments Matthias. A little hard, but good.

Matthias mutters something and pays no mind to the rest of the conversation.

Hear anything from Joseph and Maria? I probe.

Ah, pretty Maria, Jonas sighs. I knew what was going to happen, I knew it all the time, but I didn’t say anything. Not to anyone. They ran away. What do you expect? That’s the way it is. I knew that it wouldn’t make sense trying to follow them. Joseph, he’s no fool, Joseph. He wouldn’t let anyone catch him. I’m no fool either. I don’t look like much the way I am, I sleep in the stable, I go about my business, but I know everything that’s going on. Now I’m the one taking care of the cows and feeding them. Someone has to keep company with those poor animals.

As Jonas goes on with his story, I glance at Matthias. He is staring into the void as if struck with paralysis. As if he had lost control of his fate.

You might not feel it, Jonas continues, but the days are getting longer. It’s lighter in the morning. And darkness falls later. Usually, this time of year it stops being so cold for a few days at a time. Sometimes it rains instead of snowing. That’s how it is, there are always mild spells in the middle of winter. Can I have more pemmican?

Yes, Matthias says, his mind elsewhere, take all you want.

Jonas stands up and slips a few slabs into his pockets.

That’s for, that’s for the road, he explains on his way out.

TWO HUNDRED SIX

With all the snow that has piled up over the last few days, my window looks more like an arrowslit in a fortress. We are living in a bunker built for ambushes. Or an underground hiding place, with limited access to the world outside.

Dawn breaks slowly. Matthias is staring at the coffee maker, looking like he had not slept all night. His expression is serious, severe. I check out the horizon with my spyglass. I inspect the foot of the hill, toward the village. All quiet. Only three chimneys are smoking. It’s winter, people hibernate.

We are far from the mild spells Jonas promised us; the landscape is frozen in silent stillness. The barometer branch is fixed in the horizontal position, the trees submit to the snow, squirrels huddle deep in the trunks. Even the leak stopped dripping for longer than usual. But then it goes back to its ways, always a bit faster than the day before. The drops seem attracted by our presence. By our smell, our heat, like the big meat-eaters that can never completely overcome their predator’s instinct. In their veins they carry the ancient memory of their ancestors that methodically surrounded their prey before devouring it.

Suddenly Matthias slams his hand on the table. His coffee cup tips over and shatters on the floor.

This can’t be! he cries. It’s impossible!

He disappears into the other side and comes back a few moments later, hiding something in the small of his back, underneath his shirt.

I have to go to the village.

I stare at him hard.

I have to go to the village, he repeats, uncomfortable, maybe Jude and the rest of them have come back, the way Jonas said. Maybe they’re getting ready to go to the city now that they’ve tested the minibus. I have to tell them to save me a spot. That’s the agreement, I have to have my spot on the minibus.

He pulls on his coat, grabs his snowshoes, and hurries out.

I finish my coffee as I watch him make his way through the snow. The porch suddenly seems enormous and perfectly calm. The only sound is the crackling fire and the faithful drips of water. I could use the opportunity to change my bandages, do my exercises, or trim my beard. Instead I think about the bottles of wine Joseph gave us. I let my eyes wander over the room. The thought of going back to bed occurs to me. Then my eyes fall on the door that leads to the other side.

I grab hold of my crutches, get to my feet, and move toward the door. The hinges turn without making a sound. A draft of cold, stale air hits me. I breathe deeply and cross over to the other side.