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last person he’d expected to see. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI felt like skiing. I just came for the day. The mountain is beautiful early in a storm like this.”
    â€œHow did you know I was here?”
    â€œI didn’t. Coincidence, I guess. Don’t let me slow you down.”
    Wantstring didn’t believe in coincidences. Not usually. The last thing he wanted—or needed—was an interruption like this. Still, his inborn good manners, the result of a mother who’d insisted, made him school his thoughts. “Did you have a good trek up the path?”
    â€œAs good as it could be. I followed a set of tracks. Maybe they were yours? It was good to have tracks to follow.”
    â€œRight.” Wantstring cringed inwardly at how abrupt he sounded, but he truly did not want anyone around. “Here, let me get this kindling inside. I’ll get a fire going and you can warm up for a bit. Do you want to have lunch before you leave?” He emphasized “leave”; he didn’t intend to be rude, but he also didn’t want to encourage anyone to stay. “Did you bring food?”
    â€œI have a couple of sandwiches.”
    â€œGood. Park your skis and come on in.” He brushed the blade of his ax against his pant leg to remove the dusting of snow from the metal. “Once the cabin warms, we can talk while we eat. I don’t want to keep you too long. You’ll need to get back to town before the snow gets too deep. Don’t head farther up the mountain.” He extended the ax toward the steep mountainside behind him. “The trail gets really steep. Only the best skiers should try it. You’ll need to go back the way you came.”
    â€œI know.”
    Inside, Dr. Wantstring stamped the excess snow from his boots, leaned the ax against the wall beside the door, and crossed the floor, pulling the scarf from around his neck as he went. He draped it over the back of the chair. “Make yourself at home.” He dropped the kindling beside the stove and casually lifted his manuscript from the chair that held his scarf.“I’ll just make a little more room.” He stepped to the woodpile, wondering about the law of probability. Why now? Why here? Was this truly a coincidence? Maybe he was being overly careful, but if one person could consider an oncoming blizzard a great time to ski, another one might, too.
    â€œNeed any help?”
    â€œNo. Of course not. You just go ahead and park yourself on that chair.” Using his body to shield the action, he tucked the manuscript behind the piled-up wood in the corner. He picked up a log, rummaged in the pocket of his flannel shirt for matches, and knelt beside the stove. “This won’t take any time at all.”
    In the end, Dr. Marcus Wantstring was right. It did not take any time at all. The ax made it go much faster.

8

    The Joy of a Wee Run
    T he second ski was too good for Mac to leave it lying beside the trail. With his rotten luck, somebody would come along and steal it. He took his bearings. Nearby, to the left of the trail, two skinny white birches formed almost a semicircle as they bent toward each other across one of the lower branches of a thick-girthed sugar maple. Between that and the rock cliff, he’d be able to find this spot easily once he was back on his feet. Grunting with the effort, he shoved the leftover ski beneath the light, fluffy snow. There. Safe. He added one of his ski poles to the stash but kept the other one with him.
    The backpack weighed three tons as he struggled to get it on. He couldn’t leave it. He’d need the water and food. It might take those people in the cabin a while to get help up here. With his luck, they’d be the kind of people who were never prepared for anything. You sure couldn’t trust anyone these days.
    The cabin couldn’t be that much farther ahead. His bodywas still warm from the effort of skiing and