His body is pale, almost blue white. And he’s a big man. Six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds, none of it fat. He was a college football player back in the day and he’s kept himself in shape. Five miles on the treadmill each morning and rugby training every Wednesday with the Gentlemen of Aspen.

More grumbling, and he stops when his soles touch the ice. He hesitates. The snow was full of air and not too frigid but the ice is dry, flat, and sticky. It’s cold enough to burn.

“What do you want me to do?”

I’m about to speak for the first time but the words die on my lips. Not yet. Not yet.

I wave him forward.

“On this?”

I nod and extend the gun.

“Ah shit,” he says but begins walking.

It’s full light now.

The sun advancing over the plains. The moon a fading scar.

Beautiful.

The lake. The trees.

Frost crystals.

Voleries of geese.

Fish in trance.

“Aow!” he says.

Vapor lock. His soles are stuck and he shudders to a halt. Momentum is the key. I give him a shove. His back tenses at my touch and he doesn’t move.

I tap him with the gun.

We begin again.

But the sensation of his powerful shoulder muscle through the glove has made me nervous.

I’m going to have to be very careful when I give him the hammer.

In his freshman year at college he had a charge of assault and battery dismissed (so Ricky thinks) through the influence of his father; and in his senior year he broke another man’s jaw, but that never came to anything because it was on the football field.

He’s strong. He could snap me in half. Would too, given half a chance.

“How much farther? What is this?” he asks and stops again.

I push him.

Although he moves, there’s a little jaunt in his step that makes me think he’s up to something.

Got to be careful in spades.