“Stop!” Harry shouted when we rounded a corner, and I hit the brakes thinking an animal had run out into the road. Harry opened the door and ran. She stopped at an outcropping of rock that looked over a sharp slope downward and, through a grove of trees, to mountains in the distance. “Jane!”

“What?” There were a lot of people gathered at another observation point ahead of us, in their brightly colored jackets. I was a little distracted by how close to the edge Harry was standing, the fact that her knees trembled under her.

“Look,” she said, and I followed her gesture to the two peaks opposite us and far away, snow-topped, which had a blue triangle of ice nestled between them.

“There’s one,” Harry murmured. I stepped in closer behind her, and she leaned back against my chest. I could feel each of her breaths in the hitch of her shoulders. I thought of the first time I held her in my lap. “There’s one.”

We walked the rest of the way to the observation point, where the other tourists were. Some of them had binoculars. The glacier was far in the distance, cold and small. Harry stood right up against the railing, and looked at it in silence for a long, long time. There was a sign next to her, with a photo of a man standing astride a glacier, like an arctic adventurer, in 1938, and a picture in 2016, of the place where the glacier had been. Lake water, and a few chunks of dirty ice. The sign told me that in fifty years, 85 percent of the ice had melted. The sign told me that they expected it all to be gone by 2030.

I told Harry this, with my voice lowered. “Just in time, I guess,” I said. The mountain air was cool all around us. Under the ambient shriek of the wind, I could just barely pick out the sound of Harry’s breathing, coming fast and sharp through her half-open mouth, touching in its smallness. I let my hand fall lightly on the crest of her spine; I was pretty sure she was crying.

“Don’t touch me right now,” she said, and then, “Sorry.”