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the void. She saw the images that came, that always came, pale shades of the vivid past — the pink mountains of Denali, the falls at the pond, the sunlight on the water and the blue and white ice, the aspens and cottonwoods, the red-wing black bird flickering on a limb.
    And the dead. Her little brother Paul, his piebald mouse spilling from one tiny hand to another. Her father, chopping wood, shirtless in the snow. She could see them in her mind as clear as day.
    They were all she had now. They were all that was left.
    Kris pulled herself up in the net. She had to find her mother now. She wanted to go home. She lifted her skis awkwardly, disentangling them from the mesh. She slipped her legs over the edge and tried to lower herself to the floor. But she was higher than she'd thought. Her skis weren't touching down. She clung to the ropes and stretched her toe toward the floor, finally touching bottom with the tip of her ski. She let go of the net and fell hard, banging her elbows on the floor. She kneeled there, and started to cry. She fought to stop herself, tried to rise from the ground. But she didn't have the strength. She couldn't seem to move. A teardrop splashed on her hand.
    Then she felt a warm hand fall gently on her shoulder. She heard a young man's voice. A soft, soothing voice.
    "Are you all right, Kris?"

12.
    Kris sniffled, brushed her arm across her face. She was afraid to stand up — Josh would see she'd been crying.
    He crouched down beside her. "Hey. Is this some new concentration technique, or are you just saying your prayers?"
    She sniffled. His hand brushed back the hair from her eyes.
    "Whaddya know. Still as pretty as ever. Can I give you a hand?"
    "I thought that was against the rules around here," she said, taking his arm.
    He pulled her up. "I see you've met Lorraine," he said. "She does have her own unique approach to training."
    "It isn't working," she said, and sniffled again.
    "Maybe you just need to give it some time."
    "No," she said. "I'm useless. I can't see and I can't ski. No one can change that."
    "Well, don't be so sure about that." She heard him unzip a nylon bag and rustle through it. "I want you to try something I've been fooling with. It helps blind people see."
    "My blindness is total, Josh. There's no way—"
    "I know, but wait a minute. You can hear , can't you? In fact, your sense of hearing — along with your sense of touch — is what you use now, in a way, to help you 'see' without your eyes."
    "Well, I can hear things that make noise, like people, and telephones, and cars. But I can't hear trees or hills or walls."
    "That's exactly what this does. It's a radar system keyed to audio outputs that allow you to actually hear those things. It's similar to the sound waves that bats use to 'see' in the dark."
    "Is it something you invented?" She knew he was an electrical engineer, he'd told her that last Spring.
    "Somebody else actually invented it. I've just made some modifications. Here, check it out."
    He handed her what felt like a cotton headband, with two crescent-shaped molded plastic pieces and a short, flexible antennae wire.
    "What is it?"
    "It was originally a helmet, like the ones they use in the Special Olympics, but I thought that was too bulky, especially for skiing. So I stripped it down to an ear band that's light and comfortable. You want to try it on?"
    "No, I... I think I've had enough skiing today."
    "Oh. Well, I'll tell you what. Let me show you the basics off the skis. Then if you want to, we can try it on the slope later. Deal?"
    "Sure." She unhooked her skis and stepped out on the floor.
    "Give me your hand," said Josh.
    A warm shiver went through her body as he touched her. He guided her hand to the small, coin-sized object sewn into the ear band halfway between the two plastic crescents.
    "Feel that? You wear that part in front on your forehead, and the plastic pieces over your ears. Like this."
    He slipped the band over her head. It fit snugly, with