“Grace, this isn’t playtime. Get up.”

I stood, embarrassed for having been reprimanded. Staring at the ground, I thought of the rabbit, wondering if it would be a mother or a father.

“Let’s go back and wait.” Grandfather began walking, and I hurried to catch up without saying anything.

I counted the trees again, wondering if the rabbit’s babies would die because of us.

Sixty-eight.

When we arrived at the cabin, my grandfather pushed the door open and I followed, scanning the small interior quickly. I had never been inside before. It consisted of one open room. There was a sagging periwinkle sofa in the middle, upholstered in a fabric that resembled corduroy, a small table with two chairs against the only window, and an unmade cot against the wall. A stove, a sink, and an ancient-looking refrigerator were bunched in the opposite corner.

My grandfather grabbed the kettle from the stovetop and filled it from the sink’s tap. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

“Okay.” I nodded before adding, “Please.”

He turned the burner on and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. Hesitantly, I sat on the sofa and waited.

It was freezing in the cabin, and my breath took shape as it left my mouth. I rubbed my hands together before lifting them to my mouth and blowing on them.

The kettle began whistling louder and louder until my grandfather grabbed it and flicked the burner off. He filled two mugs, stirring the mixture before pulling a silver flask from his breast pocket. Adding a generous amount of the amber liquid to his own cup, he walked over and passed me the other. “Do you like marshmallows?”

I looked inside the cup, the white marshmallows bobbing on the brown surface, the steam warming my face.

“That’s a stupid question,” my grandfather snickered. “Of course you do. All kids like marshmallows.”

I didn’t.

Sitting next to me, he took large gulps from his mug. His smell was unfamiliar to me, mixing with the scent of chocolate. I peered down into my cup and, using my thumb, pushed the marshmallows into the liquid, pretending they were little creatures I was drowning. “Help me, help me,” I said quietly from the side of my mouth, in a cartoon-like way.

My grandfather took my hand as we walked the trail, retracing our path through the snow. I tried to distract myself by stepping only in my grandfather’s footprints. He was a big man, with big feet, and my footprint didn’t even fill half of his. I struggled to keep up and fumbled. My grandfather caught me and hauled me upright by the arm. “Pay attention to where you’re going,” he scolded. “You need to be vigilant.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

As we walked, I prayed the snare would be empty.

“We got one,” my grandfather whispered.

I could hear the creature struggling, scurrying and thumping. I swallowed the lump in my throat as he picked up his pace, dragging me along.

We arrived, and there it was, a white rabbit, grunting and squeaking like a tiny piglet, the wire noose wrapped tightly around its neck. It was about the size of our family cat. I remembered learning in science class that rabbits changed colour in the winter so they could hide. This was supposed to protect them from predators.