Late that afternoon, Wind carried the skis back to the little shop by himself.

He had jumped a crevasse that day. Walking through that door was harder.

Behind the counter stood the man with the gray mustache.

He looked at Wind.

“Ah,” he said. “The upside-down boy.”

Wind looked at his boots.

“The skis…” he said. “One of them is in very poor shape. I’m very, very sorry. Do you think they can still be repaired?”

The man turned the skis over in his careful hands. One edge was bent. Long scratches ran from tip to tail.

He did not seem very worried.

“Bon,” he said. “You used them. It is the end of the season. And I have seen, from a chairlift, a boy flying upside down in a manner almost imprudent. The child next to me was so excited, I nearly spilled my coffee.”

Wind looked at his boots harder.

The man ran his thumb along one long white scratch.

“But this scratch,” he said. “This one is interesting. How does a scratch like this happen?”