THE NEXT WEEK AS HALLOWEEN approaches, the weather turns suddenly colder—more proof that both the news and the weather reports can’t be trusted. The motorbike ride to town is downright freezing, but Miles and his mom score a pumpkin. It’s no bigger than a grapefruit and more yellow than orange, plus it has a flat side. Back home inside the toasty-warm cabin, the whole family gathers around to stare at it. No one says anything. Finally Sarah breaks the silence. “That’s the world’s saddest-looking pumpkin.”
“Not a good year for pumpkins,” Miles adds, warming his hands by the woodstove. The temperature outside is thirty degrees, but it’s eighty in the cabin thanks to Art, who has become Mr. Firewood.
“And you don’t want to know what I paid for that thing!” Nat says.
“Why did you buy it, anyway?” Sarah asks. “It’s not like we’re going to get any trick-or-treaters out here.”
“We need to keep our family traditions—celebrate things. Otherwise, what do we have?” Art says.
They all look at one another. Art talking about family togetherness is more than a little strange, but he has been different—more with the program—ever since Sarah’s run-in with Mr. Phelps. It’s as if the incident was some weird kind of wake-up call to fatherhood.
“Okay, then—let’s carve our giant pumpkin!” Sarah says sarcastically.
“We should make a design first,” Art says.
“I agree,” Nat says.
Miles flashes on Birch Bay, when his grandparents were still alive and he was really small—when time was different, when a day was a week long.
“We each come up with a drawing,” Art says. “Then we have a vote—and the winner gets to carve the pumpkin.”
Miles and Sarah look at each other. Sarah rolls her eyes. “This is, like, fourth grade.”
“Fourth grade was fun with you two,” Art says.
“I’ve got paper and pencils,” Nat says.
“And no rush, everybody,” Miles says. “We have all night.”
“No kidding,” Sarah grumbles, but sets to work on her drawing; she’s careful not to let Miles see it. The whole family sits around the table, hunched over their drawings, shielding their design from one another with one hand and drawing with the other.
“No peeking!” Sarah says to Miles.
“I wasn’t!” he throws back.
Sarah has the winning design (they’ve all agreed not to vote for themselves). Using the flat side of the pumpkin as a forehead, she carefully carves out long ears and horizontal eyes to create a decent-looking goat face.
“Emily!” Miles says. “That’s pretty good.”
“Watch this,” Sarah says. When she lights a little candle inside, Emily’s bright, narrow eyes stare back.
Artie leans back. Looks around. “This must be what it was like,” he says.
“What what was like?” Sarah asks.
“Families. Way back in the day.”
No one says anything.
“I mean, before cell phones and internet and television and even telephones,” he continues.
“You mean before electricity,” Nat asks.
“Yeah,” Miles says. “Not only off the grid—no grid.”
“If you think about it,” Artie says, “what was there to do?”
“Nothing!” Sarah says. She tries to be sarcastic, but it doesn’t work.
“Exactly,” Miles says. “You had to make stuff up. Like we’re doing right now.”
She gives him a dark look—as if he’s a traitor for siding with a parent.
“Play games, sing songs,” Art continues.
“Forget it! I’m not singing,” Sarah says.
“Or do nothing at all,” Nat says, and leans against Art.
Sarah rolls her eyes. Wood crackles in the stove, and in the small, warm cabin they sit and watch the flicker of the fire in the tiny glass window of the stove’s door.
Much later that night Miles awakens. It’s deep dark. There’s a different scent—a thicker, cooler air. He listens: The woods outside the cabin are quieter than usual. No night sounds at all. No hooting owls, no night critters scampering across the roof. He steps quietly over Sarah and goes to the cabin door.
Snow! Giant, wet flakes falling like albino leaves. The ground is totally covered; the trees, too. Trick or treat from the weather gods. Back in the day, back in his old life as a kid, the first snow would have been a thrill. Now he is filled with dread. He breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the clean, wet air—several breaths of it—until he’s calmer.
“Winter’s coming,” his father says behind him.
Miles jumps. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Sorry,” his father says as he continues to stare at the falling snow.
“I hope we can do this,” his father says.
“Do what?” Miles says, though he knows what his father means.
“Get through the winter. Go back home someday.”
“‘Back home’ might not be there,” Miles replies, turning sideways to his father.
His father looks straight at him.
They return their eyes to the window and are silent as they watch the falling snow.
At first light, Miles takes his gun and slips outside. In the new snow, dog prints circle the burner barrel (Sarah has been feeding him). New snow is an open book—if you know how to read it. He heads up the ridge above the cabin, but the snow is unmarked except for a line of heart-shaped deer hooves unwinding like a necklace across the throat of the woods.
Walking quietly on the soft snow, he eases through the oak trees. Heel to toe. Slowly. As soundlessly as he can. Ahead, a moving shadow—a patch of brown: a deer among the tree trunks! He lifts his gun; a fawn pauses to look around. It’s an easy shot, but he holds his fire: The weather is still not cold enough to keep the meat. The little deer bobs its head and flicks its stubby, brown-and-white tail—then picks up a scent (Miles) and bounds off. It’s a deer he would never have seen without the white backdrop of snow.
Down by the river there are mink tracks along the shore. Fox tracks, too. A fox leaves a single-file track: Its two rear paws step exactly where the front paws have landed. Less energy expended—especially in snow—and fewer tracks left behind. In nature, everything makes sense.
He is about to head back to the cabin when he sees the old dog. At first he thinks he’s dead—frozen in place—as he approaches him from behind, but his neck is erect. The old mutt with the tattered collar watches the cabin and yard. Miles steps on a branch, which cracks and flips forward. The motion, not the noise, startles the dog. He whirls toward Miles, and the hair on his back goes up like the dorsal fin on a shark. They have a long moment—two predators in full eye contact—then, scrambling, the dog runs, throwing snow from his claws. Despite his lame leg, he is incredibly fast. Once into the riverbank brush, he pauses to look back.
“Hey!” Miles says, and pitches a stick at him.
The dog does not flinch. He’s either stupid or afraid of nothing.