The night I called my mom to tell her about the little snowshoer, I thought I wouldn’t say anything about him to Molly, if Molly was the one who answered the phone. I was worried that Molly might have mixed feelings about Bigfoot Bob.

I often called during Nana’s supper business. If my mom answered, I knew Molly had the early shift on the snowcat—“from when the lifts close till midnight,” my mother had explained to me. If Molly answered the phone, I knew she was on the graveyard shift, which went from midnight to sunrise—even until the lifts opened, in the morning. Sometimes, when I called my mom at night, she said she was waiting up for Molly. “I like to have a beer with her when she gets home,” my mother had told me.

It was around suppertime of the same day I met the snowshoer when Molly answered the phone. “This is Molly,” she always said.

“This is Adam,” I said back to her, as usual.

“Adam who?” Molly always asked. “Is this Adam the Kid—Ray’s one and only—or is this some other Adam, up to no good?” (She knew it was me, of course.)

“It’s Adam the Kid, Molly,” I told the night groomer.

“I thought so,” she always said. “Ray!” Molly would then shout. “It’s your kid on the phone.”

Then the girl jocks would chime in; I pictured them, after skiing, stripped down to their long johns, or maybe wrapped in towels, after their showers. “Ray has a kid?” someone always cried out.

“How many kids have you got, Ray?” another girl jock yelled.

“I just have my one and only,” I could hear my mom say, before she came to the phone.

“Is this my Adam?” my mother always asked, as if—after the hullabaloo my call had caused—I conceivably could have been some other Adam, up to no good, as Molly never failed to inquire.

“I’ve met someone important,” I told Little Ray, not beating around the bush.

“Quiet, please!” my mom called to the girl jocks, who were still horsing around in the background. “Adam has met someone important, or so my boy says,” I heard my mother whisper, to someone else.

“Uh-oh,” a girl jock whispered back—maybe Molly. I also heard the someone important part repeated a couple of times.

“Make sure your kid has condoms, Ray!” one of the girl jocks shouted.

“Get your boy out of town, Ray—have him come live with us!” another girl jock called out.

“Yeah, right—Adam the Kid will sure as shit be safe with us,” someone (not Molly) said. I couldn’t discern more than that from the girl jocks—only their constant murmuring, frequently interrupted by a laugh as short and explosive as a bark.

“Tell me everything, Adam,” my mom was whispering. “Who have you met, sweetie? Tell me, tell me.”

“A snowshoer!” I blurted out.