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And James and I, just for good measure, wind ourselves around several more tree rows and paths until, at last, we start to slow, hand in hand.

It’s just us here.

Us and a few finches on the trees.

Us and the sound of the snow drifting off the tops of pines in the breeze.

“Shall we find a tree?” James asks. “How big are we talking?”

“As big as they come,” I reply.

So we hunt together. Row by row, aisle by aisle.

Eventually, James says, “So . . . do I want to know?”

I glance up to James. “About what?”

“About your best friend’s new mission in life.”

I wince. “That obvious?”

“I have a feeling being inconspicuous is not one of her best traits. She’s basically a walking billboard.”

I dip my head. “And, uh, what is it that you’re reading?”

“She doesn’t like me.”

I purse my lips.

I don’t know how much I want to go into this. Into everything. There’s still so much hanging in the air. And frankly, there’s a part of me that questions, If we address it head-on, will I be able to stand up for myself? And then, on the wings of hope, comes another fear. Will the daydream stop? Will I have to wake up to reality?

In the end, how will it end? I don’t know if I have the heart to find out.

“Genie has just . . . seen me hurt over the years. She doesn’t want to see it happen again.”

“She’s a good friend. Not everyone is willing to stick their neck out, or in her case, commit to hypothermia—”

“She did look like an absolute nut job.”

“—running out in the snow like that, for their friends. This one?” he says, stopping at a good nine-footer.

It’s the biggest we’ve seen in this field, but I shake my head.

We move on.

“How are we going to get this back?” he says.

“We carry it.”

“All the way?”

“Sometimes people have four-wheelers, in extenuating circumstances, but overall, walking’s the tradition.”

“Your people have a lot of traditions. You know what the Stones do for our traditions?”

“What?”

“We eat.”