Drinking socially was never her problem anyway. Passing the LC after dark, being alone and sleepless ten blocks from the late-night vendor—that was hard. But now? Going to watch idiots instead of being the idiot? That was fun.

She had her last thirty dollars for the month in her pocket and paid fifteen to go in and watch Radio Radio thrill a crowd in a tent. Wandering outside in a chill of French and English and pretty young people in spacesuit coats, she saw a stand advertising Giant Perogy Poutine with Bacon—$10 and barked, “Ha!” to no one. Throw in some bannock to soak up the gravy and you’d have the peak Manitoba food, she thought. Then she bought one.

Twenty minutes later, she was walking back from vomiting in the porta potties, but even that didn’t feel horrible—who knew the last time she’d thrown up from something besides drinking? It felt innocent in its own way.

It was while drinking water in front of the main tent that she spotted red hair in a circle of snowsuits, and right then, Hazel knew.

She lingered on the periphery of the circle. The one talking was an alpha type with a ball cap who looked so much like Christopher’s old buddy Matthew. The whole group, actually, looked like those guys from years ago.

Christopher glanced at her for a second’s blankness, and then went back to listening to the ball cap.

Hazel thought, He still looks so young. He looks so unbelievably young.

Tall—a couple inches taller than Hazel. She’d forgotten. His hair grown just over his ears. Blue mitts, a grey toque sticking up like a chef’s hat. And blue eyes with a ring of gold inside them. She was that close to him.

And he’d looked through her at first, as if she was any other girl. A specific kind of joy came to her in that, a joy she would always treasure in not being noticed.

The boys left to go back inside, and she said, “Christopher?”

He stopped, confused. “Yeah?”

“It’s Hazel,” she said.

“Hazel?”

At first he didn’t get it, and she waited for him to at best laugh, or go lifeless. But then it was beautiful—old Hollywood in the finest way—and Hazel would never forget this scene for as long as she lived. A dawn of recognition travelled across Christopher’s body. She said, “Hazel Cameron,” and took off her toque and shook out her hair, letting it spill down her fake-fur coat, and then she added, “From Pilot Mound.”

His face spread and cracked, like sunlight coming out of an egg. “We used to know each other,” she said, smiling. “A long time ago.” “HOLY SHIT! HAZEL!” And without another word (they came later: “You look amazing!” “I’ve thought about you for years!”), he hugged her. He hugged her and lifted her off the ground, her boots kicking and her nose buried in the back of his hair. It all really happened exactly like that.