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telling ’em I’m not paying for a flat screen that was stolen ten months ago, you know?”
    “Let it go to voice mail, then.”
    “That’s too easy. This is war, my friend.”
    Fender loved Sam, if only because his life was more screwed up than his own. Sam actually took satisfaction in defying every logical life lesson he could. After a degree from a culinary school in California, he’d returned home to take on a very prestigious position as a short order cook at the Morning Bird Restaurant. He also tried to smoke more weed than the rest of the town combined and prided himself on living in a house that was on the verge of being condemned.
    “Come down and meet me at the Corral.”
    “Okay.” The line went dead. The other thing Fender loved about Sam? Never had to twist his arm about going out.

Chapter Six
    A D OG I S T HE P ERFECT C OMPANION .
    Take Zoë: she always cuddled close on a winter night, and she smiled at things like squeaky rubber newspapers, burned dinners, and toilet seats left up for a drink. She barked at things that went bump in the night. Chased squirrels out of the yard, too.
    Zoë also bailed her owner out of potentially embarrassing situations. Zoë’s penchant for impromptu chew toys had saved Ginger from a possible mistake of the century with Bode last month, which probably would’ve made news at every patrol lookout on the mountain before the lifts opened the next day. But because of Zoë, it hadn’t.
    Zoë also didn’t look at her owner twice when she ate a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food in one sitting. Didn’t look down her pink nose at the movies Ginger watched on the Hallmark Channel. Didn’t question her commitment to the relationship if she let the laundry pile up, or the house plants die, or one or two—okay, ten—checks bounce at the bank. Zoë was perfectly fine with all of that.
    Brad wouldn’t have liked that Zoë sat in bed with Ginger now, watching those movies and eating the ice cream. Hell, Zoë and Ginger even used the same spoon, though not on purpose. But Ginger was disappointed in herself, too. Where were her standards? Did she have no shame? Did she plan on being a poor ski instructor who went home to her dog every night and spent her paltry income on frozen novelty food?
    She told herself it was a stage, and she was content to let it run its course. So far, its course had lasted some four months—into January—but that seemed appropriate. Her mom, the on-the-phone advisor, told her it was depression and she needed to see a counselor and experiment with medication. But Ginger believed she was still basically functional. She got up every morning, showered, put her hair in a ponytail, and went to work. Granted, sometimes she sobbed all the way, especially if she heard some song that reminded her of Brad. But by the time she arrived at Blackwolf, she’d pulled herself together. She’d slip on her trusty Oakleys to hide the wet, red eyes, and head out to teach.
    The only real side effect of her current lifestyle was the white and black dog hair liberally covering every piece of clothing she wore. And that her ski pants were tighter than they should be.
    But there were days in this life that were good. As she drove to the ski hill today in her little car, for instance, it felt like this might be one of those days.
    In midwinter, the sun rose later in the morning. As she made one of the last turns before the road slipped into the trees, the orange ball popped up over the pavement. She squinted, turned the visor down, and watched as the snow crystallized and shone.
    On January days like this, by the time she got to the parking lot, the sky was a stiff bright blue, sometimes with bits of cloud edging the bowl of mountains. She parked in the upper lot. The area was quiet yet. On weekdays, the lifts started running at ten, and she made it in time for the nine fifteen meeting.
    As she walked down to the ski school building, it was nearly silent. In the bright