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They
had
seen
caribou
tracks
in
the
snow
and
once
the
caribou
themselves
,
a
group
of
five
standing
motionlessly
below
the
security
fence
.
They
had
all
taken
turns
with
Jack
’
s
Zeiss
-
Ikon
binoculars
to
see
them
better
,
and
looking
at
them
had
given
Wendy
a
weird
,
unreal
feeling
:
they
were
standing
leg
-
deep
in
the
snow
that
covered
the
highway
,
and
it
came
to
her
that
between
now
and
the
spring
thaw
,
the
road
belonged
more
to
the
caribou
than
it
did
to
them
.
Now
the
things
that
men
had
made
up
here
were
neutralized
.
The
caribou
understood
that
,
she
believed
.
She
had
put
the
binoculars
down
and
had
said
something
about
starting
lunch
and
in
the
kitchen
she
had
cried
a
little
,
trying
to
rid
herself
of
the
awful
pent
-
up
feeling
that
sometimes
fell
on
her
like
a
large
,
pressing
hand
over
her
heart
.
She
thought
of
the
caribou
.
She
thought
of
the
wasps
Jack
had
put
out
on
the
service
entrance
platform
,
under
the
Pyrex
bowl
,
to
freeze
.
There
were
plenty
of
snowshoes
hung
from
nails
in
the
equipment
shed
,
and
Jack
found
a
pair
to
fit
each
of
them
,
although
Danny
’
s
pair
was
quite
a
bit
outsized
.
Jack
did
well
with
them
.
Although
he
had
not
snowshoed
since
his
boyhood
in
Berlin
,
New
Hampshire
,
he
retaught
himself
quickly
.
Wendy
didn
’
t
care
much
for
it
-
even
fifteen
minutes
of
tramping
around
on
the
outsized
laced
paddles
made
her
legs
and
ankles
ache
outrageously
-
but
Danny
was
intrigued
and
working
hard
to
pick
up
the
knack
.
He
still
fell
often
,
but
lack
was
pleased
with
his
progress
.
He
said
that
by
February
Danny
would
be
skipping
circles
around
both
of
them
.
*
*
*
This
day
was
overcast
,
and
by
noon
the
sky
had
already
begun
to
spit
snow
.
The
radio
was
promising
another
eight
to
twelve
inches
and
chanting
hosannas
to
Precipitation
,
that
great
god
of
Colorado
skiers
.
Wendy
,
sitting
in
the
bedroom
and
knitting
a
scarf
,
thought
to
herself
that
she
knew
exactly
what
the
skiers
could
do
with
all
that
snow
.
She
knew
exactly
where
they
could
put
it
.
Jack
was
in
the
cellar
.
He
had
gone
down
to
check
the
furnace
and
boiler
-
such
checks
had
become
a
ritual
with
him
since
the
snow
had
closed
them
in
-
and
after
satisfying
himself
that
everything
was
going
well
he
had
wandered
through
the
arch
,
screwed
the
lightbulb
on
,
and
had
seated
himself
in
an
old
and
cobwebby
camp
chair
he
had
found
.
He
was
leafing
through
the
old
records
and
papers
,
constantly
wiping
his
mouth
with
his
handkerchief
as
he
did
so
.
Confinement
had
leached
his
skin
of
its
autumn
tan
,
and
as
he
sat
hunched
over
the
yellowed
,
crackling
sheets
,
his
reddish
-
blond
hair
tumbling
untidily
over
his
forehead
,
he
looked
slightly
lunatic
.
He
had
found
some
odd
things
tucked
in
among
the
invoices
,
bills
of
lading
,
receipts
.
Disquieting
things
.
A
bloody
strip
of
sheeting
.
A
dismembered
teddy
bear
that
seemed
to
have
been
slashed
to
pieces
.
A
crumpled
sheet
of
violet
ladies
’
stationery
,
a
ghost
of
perfume
still
clinging
to
it
beneath
the
musk
of
age
,
a
note
begun
and
left
unfinished
in
faded
blue
ink
:
"
Dearest
Tommy
,
I
can
’
t
think
so
well
up
here
as
I
’
d
hoped
,
about
us
I
mean
,
of
course
,
who
else
?
Ha
.
Ha
.
Things
keep
getting
in
the
way
.
I
’
ve
had
strange
dreams
about
things
going
bump
in
the
night
,
can
you
believe
that
and
"
That
was
all
.
The
note
was
dated
June
27
,
1934
.
He
found
a
hand
puppet
that
seemed
to
be
either
a
witch
or
a
warlock
…
something
with
long
teeth
and
a
pointy
hat
,
at
any
rate
.
It
had
been
improbably
tucked
between
a
bundle
of
natural
-
gas
receipts
and
a
bundle
of
receipts
for
Vichy
water
.
And
something
that
seemed
to
be
a
poem
,
scribbled
on
the
back
of
a
menu
in
dark
pencil
:
"
Medoc
/
are
you
here
?
/
I
’
ve
been
sleepwalking
again
,
my
dear
.
/
The
plants
are
moving
under
the
rug
.
"
No
date
on
the
menu
,
and
no
name
on
the
poem
,
if
it
was
a
poem
.
Elusive
,
but
fascinating
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
these
things
were
like
pieces
in
a
jigsaw
,
things
that
would
eventually
fit
together
if
he
could
find
the
right
linking
pieces
.
And
so
he
kept
looking
,
jumping
and
wiping
his
lips
every
time
the
furnace
roared
into
life
behind
him
.
*
*
*
Danny
was
standing
outside
Room
217
again
.
The
passkey
was
in
his
pocket
.
He
was
staring
at
the
door
with
a
kind
of
drugged
avidity
,
and
his
upper
body
seemed
to
twitch
and
jiggle
beneath
his
flannel
shirt
.
He
was
humming
softly
and
tunelessly
.
