I understood this was what the Prednisone was for—this burst of energy that wouldn’t last long. It could actually hasten her ultimate demise. “It’ll make her feel very good, even euphoric,” the snowshoer had told me.

Near the top of Upper Twister, Molly gunned the snowmobile—to get over what she called the Rock Garden. That was where we noticed how the climbers’ tracks changed. My mother must have had some trouble on the second steep part of Twister. We saw only the snowshoer’s tracks, the rest of the way. Elliot Barlow had carried her piggyback to the top. Little Ray must have held her skis and poles. “At the end, Ray would want her skis on, Kid,” Molly said. We got to the top of Bromley just barely ahead of the sunrise, but my mom and Mr. Barlow were way ahead of us; they’d been there for five hours, or more, in the freezing cold. The old ski patroller knew exactly where she would find them.

Little Ray liked the Number Ten chairlift, the Blue Ribbon Quad, the best. My mother also liked drama, and she was good at it. In the predawn light, we saw my mom and Elliot Barlow sitting together in the foremost downhill-facing chair of Number Ten. They’d had a six-pack between them, a lot of beer for those two. The empties were lined up on the east side of the unloading platform, the sunrise side, between the sign that said NO DOWNHILL LOADING and the drop-off edge of the platform—where the safety net was.

“I’m guessing the Valium was for both of them, Kid,” Molly told me. The sedative would increase the effects of the alcohol, making it easier and faster for them to freeze to death—comfortably and peacefully, the old ski patroller explained. “I’ll bet it wasn’t exactly a suicide pact,” Molly insistently said. She meant that my mother probably didn’t know the snowshoer intended to die with her. In the chairlift, my mother was fully dressed for skiing—her parka zipped up to her chin, her gloves on, her ski hat covering her ears. Not the snowshoer, who was paradoxically undressed; her parka, gloves, and ski hat were strewn all over the unloading platform; she’d frozen to death somewhat undressed.

“The snowshoer assisted your mom’s suicide—I’ll bet that was the pact between them, Kid,” Molly explained, as she was dressing the snowshoer. “But Mr. Barlow always meant to go with her—she just helped Ray go first,” the old patroller said. This was what Molly meant about my mom and the snowshoer lasting the longest—“I’m betting they go the distance,” the trail groomer had always said.