Neither of them speaks. Maeve, a hand against her thin T-shirt, fingers absently running over the ridged line of the scar across her belly underneath. C-section, her career-section, ha-ha; this is Maeve’s great joke, but she doesn’t say it aloud now. There are no more principal roles for Maeve. Not at her age, and not with this body history. The only realistic goal is the one she’s set: start her own company, take the lead in a new way. And to do that, she has to stay focused. No matter what.

Overhead, the light changes. A new wave of snow clouds moving in.

“Quiet out here, isn’t it?” Maeve moves back to where Karolina is standing, near the door. She’s eager to put the moment behind them.

“Well, you’re here at a bit of a strange time—I’m sure I mentioned that in my e-mails.” Karolina leans against the door frame and begins to pull her boots back on, her mood easily reset. “We ended a term program last month, so there’s only a few of us here. We’re quite the little club already! Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. I’m here year-round. Our journalism director too. He’s a lovely kid, pure fun—Justin Doyle. But as far as artists are concerned, it’s really just you out here in the cabins. There’s a filmmaker, Anna Barthelmy, from New Orleans; she’s a sort of activist, her family is practically Creole royalty. She’s working up in the main building. Her second time at High Water in a year! If you like it here, you love it.” Karolina switches feet, tugs on her bootstrap. “And Sim Nielssen, have you seen his work before?”

Maeve shakes her head.

“He travels a lot,” Karo says. “Shows overseas, mostly—Europe and Asia. He’s in residence for the year. Been here since September, working on a great, giant installation. In the gallery, just off the lobby. It’s going to be fantastic, you can’t imagine how good.”

She stamps her foot into the boot, punctuating the very goodness, the greatness of this installation.

Maeve has a shiver suddenly, something on the back of her neck, cold enough to make her flinch. She reaches for it, but it’s only water—a bit of snowmelt from her hair. As she moves, she catches herself in the mirror again. For a second, her face hollows out; her lips are black, her eyes only sockets. A trick of the light from above.

She takes a breath. She hasn’t begun to put her own boots back on.

“I might stay behind here for a few moments.”