All was grey, wet, glistening in the sun. Between bare branches of birch and aspen, distant mountains peaked from hilltops. Footsteps crunched in crust with the occasional patch of melt interjecting.

Rumbles came up the road and the runner edged left as by instinct, feet then muffled in shoulder snow.

“Want a seltzer?” A bare hand draped dark blue papered aluminum out the window of a sedan.

There was pause. “Uhm. Sure.” The can hopped rides. “Thanks.”

“You looked thirsty!” Her friend laughed and they were off around the bend.

After a time, crackles echoed once more. Held in front, bobbing at each impact, a streak of green and red aurora ran across the label.

At the cabin the vodka bubbly lodged in a fridge door, not likely to escape. Then it was up stairs—varnished 2x6 slats arranged at interval between their tall brothers—to a cramped bedroom.

Thin black glass slipped out from a zipper pocket along their lower back. Cotton and denim replaced wool and synthetics, which were hung sodden from dresser knobs and the corners of book shelves. The contours of hills illuminated at a touch.

A tiny triangle sat center of concentric ovals with a path extending to the right; that one path eventually split into three. There were a couple of words: Spring—where the north fork met a blue squiggle—and, some length below the crossroads—Entrance.