Wind looked at the deep scratches on his skis, where the dark plastic was torn apart, and at one bent edge. It felt to him like the skis were beyond repair.

What was he going to say at the shop?

Then he clicked back into his ski and followed the three tracks down, very slowly, until he could see the marked run again.

They had known the crevasse was there. They had known they could clear it.

Wind thought about all those mornings at ski school, behind Coach, skiing exactly in his tracks. He had always known where those tracks went. He had watched them being made. He knew who made them.

“Tracks only tell you somebody went,” he said, to nobody. “Not who.”