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

Rumbles came up the road and the runner edged left—though, not by choice—and was then muffled in the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

Vodka bubbly lodged in a fridge door at the cabin, 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 bookshelf ends. 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, also, a couple of words: Spring—where the north fork met a blue squiggle—and, some length below the crossroads—Entrance.