“Bygone days,” his father said last night over the plate of Larke’s famous chicken divan casserole he was eating alone, at the kitchen island.

The smell of garlic and broccoli had nearly broken him. Some of the leftovers were going bad in the fridge and still Dodge couldn’t bring himself to eat at the lodge.

He didn’t know why. It just felt like it was one more layer of his anger sacrificed.

A guy had to have his principles, right?

And then—right in the middle of his thoughts—the roof gave way. Not just water but snow chunks plummeted onto his bed, and he rolled away a second before a sheet of ice rained down.

What the—?

He jumped up, his feet bare, wearing only his thermals. He pulled on his Sorels, grabbed his parka and headlamp, and headed outside.

The weather hovered a millimeter above freezing, the wind nipping at him as he hiked out to the toolshed. The sun had begun to tinge the range in fire, casting deep lavender shadows into the valleys and across the vast white terrain that surrounded their property. Behind him, wind carried snow dust off the lake, sprinkling it onto his jacket.

Inside the toolshed, an extension off the Quonset hut, he grabbed a ladder. The shovel he picked up down at the cabin.

He noticed a light on at the house, and through the window, he spotted his father in his recliner, reading, his glasses low on his nose.

His morning routine—coffee, Bible, prayer. Dodge used to find a sort of comfort in that, as if, with his dad at the helm, all would be okay. He wouldn’t crash in the bush somewhere, leaving them orphans. To him, Barry Kingston had been the wisest of men, the person he looked to for learning not only to fly but also to live life.

Dodge’s thoughts drifted to his father recapping his military service. “Scared me to death.”

Nothing scared Barry Kingston. Dodge didn’t know what to do with those words.

He propped the ladder against the side of the cabin and climbed up.

The snowpack had been allowed to accumulate, and now he stepped down onto the roof, and it came nearly to his thigh.

Well, that was the first problem.

He dug in with his shovel and began to throw the snow from the roof, over the side.

The sun slid higher and turned all of the peaks bright pink, the base a deep blue, the foothills a lavish green, the snow that blanketed the valley a light robin’s-egg blue. Sweat dripped down Dodge’s back, but he stood to watch the glory for a moment, the stripping of the darkness to reveal the scars, the crevasses, the dangers, but also the stark beauty of a land that endured. Survived.

Thrived with the sunrise.