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snow.
    You never think before…
    Go in, and careful with the glass.
    As soon as Rachel feels the warmth on her face, her qualms, fear, anger, they all melt as fast as the snow stuck to her clothing. She coos with relief. Her muscles, tense for so long, relax and she shivers, shivers.
    The cousins take off mitts, scarves, tuques, coats. They cover the broken window with a large piece of cardboard advertising a giant strawberry ice cream cone.
    Because of the snowstorm, the night outside has remained clear. Inside, the girls must walk with arms straight in front to guide them. Their fingers grope along walls to locate a switch.
    I found one, Jeanne. Nothing.
    It’s dead here too. Must be a power failure.
    Ouch, damn! Careful. I just hit my head.
    Rachel touches the point of impact. Of course, she hit the injured spot.
    It felt like, a, locker or something, Jeanne. Metal.
    Jeanne laughs: I can’t see you. Where are you hiding?
    Wait. I’ll go stand in front of a window.
    Before a hand grabs her, Rachel hears the sound of a collision. A laugh and a curse. Now holding hands, their free arms straight out, the girls find the curving stairway that leads to the snack bar. At last, they reach the higher floor. Up here, the panoramic windows cut through darkness in big slices.
    Rachel marvels: Look at that snow! A real blizzard like they had in the days of Nouvelle-France. You know. The colonists were trapped inside their houses for days.
    Nose against the window, her face wrapped in the fog of her breath condensing on cold glass, Rachel can’t get enough.
    Jeanne, do you think we’ll have to spend the entire night here?
    Isn’t it great! The whole place to ourselves. Jeanne moves things around behind the counter: And no one telling us what to do.
    We had the mountain to ourselves. And look what happened. I nearly split open my head and you broke my toboggan. What are you doing?
    Rachel walks toward the darker shape of the counter, tripping against a chair leg before reaching her destination.
    Ah, I found some. Jeanne strikes a match and fixes a candle in a small pool of melted wax. Soon, a luminous line flickers along the edge of the counter, which she wipes with an imaginary cloth: What may I serve you, Miss?
    No no no no no! I won’t play the customer. No! Move over. You be the customer.
    As Rachel enters the light, Jeanne shrieks.
    Shriek all you want. I’m telling you, I won’t be the customer, Jeanne. You’re always d’Artagnan or the Warrior Queen. This time, I’ll be the important character. I’ll be the server.
    That’s not it. It’s your face.
    My face? Scrunching her muscles into a scary mask made scarier in the candlelight, she plays ghost, enunciating each syllable: This is a phan-tas-ma-go-ri-cal face for a phan-tas-ma-go-ri-cal night.
    Jeanne shrieks for the fun of it, then sobers up: Your face. It’s covered in blood. That’s what’s scary.
    Rachel touches her forehead, crusted over. She finds a mirror hanging on a pillar. In the candlelight, her puffed-up face and her left eye, swollen half-shut, shock her to death. Now that she sees it, the deep cut throbs intensely.
    It’s your fault, Jeanne. Because of you, I’ll have a huge scar. And what if I go blind in that eye? It’s all your fault.
    Let me wash off the blood and wrap a towel around.
    Jeanne finds a white linen towel and a white apron. At the deep sink behind the counter, she wets the towel and cleans the wound. Despite the pain, Rachel tries not to squirm, practising making herself tough. Jeanne wraps the towel around her cousin’s forehead. Folding the apron, she secures the bandage in place with the apron strings. At the same time, they both remember they need to pee.
    On a dare, they enter the men’s washroom, propping the door open to let in some light. The girls stare at the urinals, hooting at the contraptions. Rachel, who hates sitting down on public toilets,