I look down to find that I’m in an underlayer of leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, ski socks pulled up to my knees, winter coat smushed behind me in the seat. The tunnel is up ahead, but we are on the side that leads into Whittier. I sag against the door. “Did we already go?”

“Yes.”

“But I can’t remembe—” As the words leave my mouth, I stop because it hits me that I do in a way. In the tautness of my quads, the ache running up my calves, a lingering coldness in the tips of my toes, the chapped feel of the skin across my cheeks.

“Here.” He hands me a tablet, quickly swipes it open, then instructs me to push play on a video. There I am, top of the mountain, helmet and goggles covering most of my face except my mouth, which is spread into a wide grin. On the video, Tate’s voice booms out, “Having fun?”

I lift my face to the sky, ski poles in the air. “It’s perfect, Tate. Thank you!” Then I push off and fly down the hill.

The camera wobbles violently, and I hear Tate mumble, “Oh . . . shit, she’s f . . . f-ast.”

“I have others from today, that’s just all I had . . . time to upload before we left.”

I play it again, see the look on my face, feel a prickling of warmth run down my back. There’s more. This one from a day of snow machining. I’m on the back, clinging to Tate, and Sefina’s voice calls out, “Grab his ass, Claire!” I throw my head back when I laugh and then give her what I’m assuming is the middle finger in a pair of mittens. The camera shakes with her giggles.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

I read the note card again. “You think I use my notebooks to keep people away?”

He shifts in his seat, sighs. “You can’t write every minute down . . . you know? I know that means you’ll make mistakes or . . . r-epeat yourself, but Claire, you’re amazing to be around. You’re funny and interesting, and I know you hate for others to see you forgetting things, but you are lovely and that hasn’t changed. Besides, your hand hurts all the t . . . t-ime; we all see it.”

I stiffen at the implication that I am on display. “We?”

He gives me a sideways glance. “Me, Ruth, Sefina, Harriet, Alice.”

My face turns to stone. “Mom lives in Whittier?”

“Yes, and she’s sober and g . . . g-ood. She’s better now, Claire. You should be proud of her.”