Saskia and I swoop down the red run. The slope is deserted. I did this run with Saskia a month ago, back when I thought we were friends. I hate to admit it given everything she’s done, but I’ve missed riding with her.

She pulls a 180 over a mound; I streak after her and pull a 360. She sees and 360s a lip to the side of the slope. I attempt a 540 and fall. She laughs.

There’s this notion that it isn’t cool to be competitive if you’re female, and around other women, even Odette, I find myself trying to hide my competitive streak. With Saskia, though, I let it out. She’s so unafraid to be herself, it makes me unafraid. In her company, as angry as she sometimes makes me, I feel like I’m the truest version of myself.

If only we could have been friends. Maybe we would have been if we were doing a team sport instead of an individual one. Or would we still be competing with each other, because that’s just how we are?

We reach the bottom of the chairlift, gasping for breath. There’s no queue, so we go straight through the turnstile. That was such fun I want to do it again. Damn. Now I have to bring up the accident.

A three-man seat trundles toward us. It snowed lightly earlier and the black PVC seat backs look like they’ve been sprinkled in icing sugar.

“Hey!” someone shouts.

I look around.

Curtis races down the slope toward us. “Wait!”

Saskia tugs my arm. “Come on.”

I hesitate, but Saskia yanks me forward and the chair sweeps us up.

“See you at the top!” I shout to Curtis.

Saskia hasn’t lowered the safety bar, so I reach for it.

“Wait,” she says. “Let me take my jacket off. I’m sweating.”

So I leave the bar raised and sit back in the seat. It’s a warm day. It’s only early February but it feels like spring already. Saskia ties her jacket around her hips and sits back beside me.

Curtis lets out a shrill whistle from the chair behind.

I turn. “What?”

“The safety bar!”

“Is he for real?” Saskia mutters.

I lower the bar and it swings down across our laps with a clunk. I turn to Saskia. Let’s get this over with. “What was it you dropped onto Jacinta yesterday?”

To my shock, she laughs. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

I study her, hoping her amusement is due to surprise rather than the demise of Jacinta’s season.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a black scrap of cloth. “You mean this?”

I notice the symbol in the corner—the white lightning bolt of Electric eyewear. “Hey, that’s my goggle cloth.”

“I found it in the pipe where poor Jacinta fell. You dropped it right on top of her.”