Bleeker looked back. She stood in the doorway of the shack, arms crossed, sun bright behind her. Just like a blizzard to sweep away all the clouds and blind you with clear blue big sky the next day. His face hurt from the cold, his jaw felt like someone was stabbing him-grinding his teeth all night-and his hands were numb. He squinted, realized why Trish was stand-offish, and put the gun into his jacket pocket. Dropped the cup by the empty bottles of Sailor Jerry's and store brand cola. The swishing in his head wasn't so bad, until he tried to stand up. Felt like the ice was breaking and he was going in.

Trish nodded at the hole in the ice. "You did it?"

The plastic box was upside down, and a lot of ash was still ringing the hole like margarita salt. Then there were smudges, bootprints. An embarrassing funeral.

"I could've used help, I guess. But it's done."

She didn't react much. Walked closer to the hole, took a look down, arms still crossed. Bleeker had a hard time seeing her like this-a puffy parka over a long sleeve t-shirt. Jeans and boots. Severe short hair, spiked on top. Frown lines etched in forever and forever. Rose-tinted eyeglasses with extra-thin gold frames. It wasn't that she looked bad, really, but more like she looked the same way she'd been acting for so long-bitter.

Bleeker didn't know what was important enough to get her up here. He didn't bother saying goodbye when he left the day before. Separate bedrooms, separate meals, separate schedules. They'd never had children, so that made it even easier, as easy as these things could be. Except for the one scare, the reason they got married in the first place. But she lost it inside of a month. They saved the date anyway. Grinded along until the gears had frozen. She wouldn't be here for the small stuff.