He climbs out of bed and draws the curtains. His face lights up. “There’s a foot of fresh. Want to head up to the glacier for some freshies? The pipe’ll be buried.”

I can’t help shuddering at the word buried.

—

Le Rocher’s cobbled main street has been cleared, snow piled high on either side. A thick white carpet covers everything else in sight. Inches teeter on top of road signs; half a meter is stacked up on roofs and balconies. Parked cars are barely visible.

Brent, Curtis, and I walk down the center of the road. The little stone church is swamped by snowdrifts, its wrought iron cross and railings covered with a thick white frosting. Shopkeepers use snowblowers to clear their shopfronts.

It’s the first of April today but it feels colder than it was back in February. I zip my jacket up to my chin. I went to the doctor recently for stronger sleeping tablets. They hit hard and I still feel woozy and off-balance this morning.

“I’ve got to call in at Sport 2000,” Brent says. “Cracked my high-back yesterday.”

Curtis and I sit side by side on a snowdrift outside the shop while we wait. The smell of chocolate drifts from a nearby patisserie and my mouth waters.

“Have you heard from Jacinta?” I say.

“Yeah, phoned her last night,” Curtis says. “She’s getting the cast off in two weeks and she’ll start rehab, ready for the Aussie winter.”

“Great. Say hi from me.”

“Will do.”

A man chases a woman down the street with a snowball. I have to laugh. They must be in their fifties. There’s something about fresh snow that brings your inner child to the surface.

A distant boom echoes across the valley and my laughter dies. That’s the ski patrol, blasting the slopes to set off avalanches that might otherwise bury people. They have their work cut out for them today. They can’t let anyone up there until they’re sure it’s safe. I gaze at the snow-swamped slopes. After what happened yesterday, I feel like I’ve lost my nerve. I never want to be buried again.

A louder boom makes me flinch. My eyes search for the dust cloud that would signify an avalanche.

“So of all the sports in the world, why half-pipe?” Curtis says. “Why not running? Or something else?”

Does he sense how I’m feeling? I think he might. “It’s probably because of Spider-Man.”

He splutters. “What?”

“When I was little, my brother and I were fascinated with how Spider-Man could stick to walls. We used to try it. Put a mattress on the floor next to the wall and run at it, hard as we could. Then I tried half-pipe and the walls are about the height of a two-story building and, you know. We do sort of stick to them.”

Curtis laughs. He must think I’m so weird.