We drove back feeling lucky.

The sky was pale blue, but not just one shade of blue. It went from light blue, almost white on the edge, to deeper blue. Reminded me of a Blue jay, the bird, not the baseball team. I’d spent a winter training in New Hampshire. Up in the White Mountains. It was a cold weather survival course. The last week was a solo. Which meant that they dumped me blindfolded and bound on a trail somewhere, threw a bucket of water over me, kicked me in the balls and took off. They left a purple smoke grenade in case I wanted to tap out.

I didn’t tap out. I almost froze to death in the first few hours, but I figured it out and ended up having a pretty good time. First and foremost, I cheated. Before getting in the back of the truck, I’d stuck a little cigarette lighter where the sun don’t shine, which proved useful when making a fire to cook the beavers I trapped. Second, I made the most of my body temperature, which meant digging in the snow and staying there, using my body as a heater and the snow as insulation.

So, I never learned how to make a fire by rubbing sticks together, but I got a taste for roasted beaver tail. And every morning I’d wake up to the blue mountain sky, and the same old Blue jay would land on the same branch and just look at me and caw. The bird’s colors ran from white to deep sky blue. Just like the sky over Alencourt France.

But we didn’t need to make a fire in Alencourt, the day was heating up all by itself. Mostly because the sun was out and it was late June. We had the windows rolled down and Nazari turned the knob on the Peugeot’s radio. Luckily it wasn’t French music, which might have been an issue, but the Rolling Stones. One of my favorite songs, 100 Years Ago, off Goat’s Head Soup.

We were feeling lucky, so she cranked the volume. She was laughing and dancing and playing air guitar while she drove. I’m not much of a dancer so I just nodded my head to the beat.

We were coming up on the bridge towards the house. She was looking at me and I was looking at her. She mouthed my name, “Tom”, and even though I couldn’t hear her voice over the music, I heard it anyway, in my head. Her hair was out and wild, blowing around with the wind coming through the window. And through her hair I caught a quick flash of sunlight glancing off a reflective surface, like a window, or a pair of glasses, or a rifle scope.