Thelma pushed in closer. “Oh, for God’s sake, Ernt. This is a sad day. Stow the jealousy for ten minutes.”

“You think I’m jealous of Tom?” Dad said. He glanced at Mama. “Should I be?”

Leni turned her back on them, watched Alyeska hustle Matthew through the mourners, over to a quiet corner in the back.

Leni followed, eased between people who stank of wood smoke and sweat and body odor. Bathing was a luxury in midwinter. No one did it often enough.

Matthew stood alone, staring blankly forward, with his back to the charred, black-peeling wall. Soot peppered his sleeves.

She was shocked by how changed he looked. He couldn’t have lost that much weight in such a short time, but his cheekbones were like ridges above his hollow cheeks. His lips were chapped and bloodied. A patch of skin was white at his temple, the color a sharp contrast to his windburned cheeks. His hair was dirty, and hung in limp, thin strands on either side of his face.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he answered dully.

Now what?

Don’t say, I’m sorry. That’s what grown-ups say and it’s stupid. Of course you’re sorry. How does that help?

But what?

She edged forward cautiously, careful not to touch him, and sidled up beside him, leaning back against the burnt wall. From here, she could see everything—the lanterns hanging from burnt rafters, walls covered with dusty antique snowshoes and fishnets and cross-country skis, ashtrays overflowing, smoke blurring everything—and everyone.

Her parents were huddled with Mad Earl and Clyde and Thelma and the rest of the Harlan family. Even through the cigarette smoke haze, Leni could see how red her dad’s face was (a sign of too much whiskey), how his eyes were narrowed in anger as he talked. Mama looked defeated beside him, afraid to move, afraid to add to the conversation or to look at anything except her husband.

“He blames me.”

Leni was so surprised to hear Matthew speak that it took her a moment to process what he’d said. Her gaze followed his to Mr. Walker.

“Your dad?” Leni turned to him. “He couldn’t. It’s not anyone’s fault. She just … I mean, the ice…”

Matthew started to cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stood there, stock-still, so tense he seemed to be vibrating. In his eyes, she glimpsed a bigger world. Being lonely, being afraid, a volatile, angry dad; these were bad things that gave you nightmares.

But they were nothing compared to watching your mother die. How would that feel? How would you ever get over it?

And how was she, a fourteen-year-old girl with troubles of her own, supposed to help?

“They found her yesterday,” he said. “Did you hear? One of her legs was missing, and her face—”

She touched him. “Don’t think—”