“All right,” Wilson says as they reach the zip cord. “Here it is.” He tells Isabelle to wait at the tree while he goes to get the swing where it hangs halfway down the wire. But when he pulls at it, tries to slide it along the wire back to the tree where Isabelle awaits, he finds that it is frozen solid in place. “Uh-oh,” Wilson calls. “Minor problem, but”—he gives the swing a couple of yanks until it comes unstuck—“problem solved.” But the problem is not solved. The swing is indeed unstuck, but there is a layer of ice coating the wire just as it coats the trees. Wilson tries to break it off; he cannot through his mitten, and even barehanded, when he tries, it is difficult to chip away. It would take an hour, he thinks, to clear the wire of ice entirely. He lets the swing go and stands for a minute watching his breath rise and disappear against the white sky. He sees some kind of bird, a raven or a crow, high in the branches of a nearby tree. The bird is still and seems to meet his gaze.

Wilson sighs and turns around. Isabelle is sitting in the snow by the tree, sucking on an icicle. “Where’d you get the icicle?” he asks, trudging toward her.

Isabelle gestures with her mittened hand to the rock ledge behind her, where a colony of icicles hang sharp and long.

Wilson nods. He takes a breath. “The wire’s frozen,” he says. “So it looks like we’re out of luck.”

Isabelle nods and shrugs, but Wilson can see disappointment in the way her eyes fall, the way her mouth twitches just a bit. She stands and starts back toward the house, and Wilson as he watches her is unnerved by how desperate he feels, desperate and helpless. “Belle!” he calls. “Wait, Belle!”

Isabelle turns around.