“I’m supposed to be a second lieutenant—I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of my platoon,” Zimmer said, with some difficulty.

I could see it surprised him when Molly kissed him on the lips and crushed him in her arms. “Try to take care of yourself, too,” the trail groomer told him.

“I’m not saying ‘goodbye’ to you, Zim—I’m going to hug you and kiss you like crazy when you come back!” my mother called to him, from her bedroom. The door was still closed.

“Okay!” Zimmer called to her. I could see he was a little shaken; he didn’t know what else to say.

“No, it’s not okay—it’ll never be okay!” my mom was wailing. “You’re just a boy, you’re a little boy! You’re still growing, Zim!” my mother screamed; then we could hear her sobbing.

To watch Matthew Zimmermann put his few things in the car was a lesson in inessential deliberation. It took him forever to drive away; Zim must have done a dozen single-leg lunges in the driveway before he finally got in the driver’s seat. Molly and I were crying as we watched him out the kitchen window.

“You’ll never guess where I hid the shotgun,” I started to say to Molly, but she stopped me. The ski patroller grabbed my throat, in her big hands—choking me.

“Don’t tell me where the twenty-gauge is, Kid,” Molly told me. “If you tell me now, I might have enough time to load it and shoot him.”

29. THE GOOD SHEPHERD

Your first loss of a loved one, the first death of someone dear to you—when it happens, the pace of everything changes. In the past, there were times when nothing seemed to be happening. When you lose someone, you’re aware of the earth’s motion; the world is always moving, always ahead of you. For the rest of your life, you know there are other deaths coming—one after another, yours included.