The muscles in his back were strong, although he was old. He slipped his saw into one of the cracks caused by expansion, and worked it through the ice until the blade became hot with the motion. The triangular block he finally cut had two smooth edges from the hot steel. With the tongs he dragged the block from the water, then lifted it with his gloves. As he worked, he stacked each block in the wheelbarrow like stones in a wall, the lopsidedness of one making room for the angle of another.

He worked steadily, but the wheelbarrow was only half full when the sun rose to late morning, dull yellow behind the gray sky, and people began to come out of the houses. They pulled on hockey skates and figure skates, sitting on the bank while they struggled with tongues and laces. The children shouted to each other; the smallest ones skated behind small wooden chairs to keep their balance; some of the mothers brought hot chocolate made with milk kept fresh in the Frigidaire. The ice harvester worked on. He liked the sounds of the skaters, and he was careful not to break good skating ice. He was working and they were not, but they had their work at other times, and he was happy to have his. It was good to have them there.

A girl skated close to him, wearing a single braid and a winter hat. She was about seven, careful and well taught, watching the cracks in the ice to be sure of the depth. She studied the stacked wheelbarrow and waited, as if people usually explained things to her before she had to ask.

The ice harvester straightened his back and felt his tired muscles arrange themselves in their upright places. “Good morning,” he said.

“It’s almost lunchtime.”

He looked at the sky. She was right.

“Does your family have a refrigerator?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He leaned on his saw, stretching first one shoulder, then the other. “Do you know anyone without one?”

She thought about it. “No.”

“No,” he said. He turned back to his work.

“What will you do with the ice?” she asked.

“Put it in my cart.”

She looked across the lake to his tin cart waiting for him on the bank where he had appeared that morning. It was the cart he had pushed through town to sell the ice, when there had been people to buy it.

“When will the lake melt?” she asked.

He looked at the sky again and thought about the shape of the year. “Maybe March,” he said. “Maybe later.”

She calculated. “We can’t swim till June.”

The harvester waited for the child to leave, so he could continue with his work. He didn’t know about swimming, and didn’t know what to tell her. His expertise was restricted to frozen water.