The snow had stopped. It lay deep and crisp and even. The wind had stopped, too.

“Dodge?” he said. “Can you see this?”

He stood in the chilly sunroom again, squinting, looking out at the twinkling white snow on the lake. It really did twinkle. He hated that word; it sounded too cute, like a word that should only be used to describe the eyes of a pony in the worst kind of Saturday morning cartoon. But he didn’t know another word for what was happening out there on the lake right now, half blinding him with reflected light from the sun just rising over the hills, where only a scant few hours earlier he had watched the moon sinking. The two islands stood out, dark green, as if freshly varnished, Picnic on the left, little Garbage Island on the right, the trees all decked out like a Christmas card. Twinkle, twinkle.

He raised his mug of coffee to his lips and took a slug, felt the warmth slide down into his belly. Below him, not too far beyond the invisible shoreline, the rotor wash left by the helicopter that had brought Shaker and Beck there after their escape was gone. He looked out the side window and saw the yard as pristine as the lake, with no sign that three men had made a hasty exit, roared out of here midway through yesterday afternoon. The snow had wiped away every trace of the invasion.

Good.

He headed back indoors with half a pound of bacon he’d found in the fridge and a couple of eggs, the last two in the carton. He placed them on the counter and went back to shut the door to the sunroom. But as he did, he stopped and listened, his heart in his throat. Then he laid his forehead against the cold wood of the door. A snowmobile was coming.