Around here, if you don’t have money, you’re nothing. No voice, no one protects you. You become insignificant.

Tommy and I dreamt about the future all the time. About getting out of Aspen. These long, wild talks about the places we wanted to go. They were completely impractical, but that was the point. He had a vision. We’d start in Alaska, spend time camping on the glacial lakes, breathing the sharp, clean air. Then we’d hop a whale-watching boat and cruise down to Seattle, where a car would be waiting for us. A 1965 powder-blue Mustang. He’d talk about sinking down in the bucket seats as we drove cross country. Through Idaho, Montana, South Dakota. Cruise through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio. Cut up through Pennsylvania and New York and keep going until we were lying on the beach, way up in Maine, eating lobster.

Some nights I’d stay over at Mr. Miller’s house. We’d sit on these rocks near the edge of the property, overlooking the valley, and whisper all night long. If it wasn’t for a few visible lights from new mansions down below, it could have been anytime in history.

This was only the beginning of the greedy developers and their light pollution. Killing the darkness we’d taken for granted. Some nights I swear I can’t even find Ursa Major anymore. Aspen was changing every day. The signs were everywhere. A town like this always is, but it was turning into something I didn’t recognize. I think one of the things that brought Tommy and me together was neither of us was interested in status. Maybe we should have been. A sick fact about our little town is that protection is a privilege extended only to certain members of the community.

Claudine

By 5:59 p.m. everyone had arrived but Zara.

The guests knew better than to be late to the Calhoun Holiday Party, especially because they’d been discreetly informed of the surprise guest. The Alpine brothers, Jack and Bobby, were the first. Their rugged handsomeness full Colorado. They cleaned up well. Henry was right, no suits. Flannels and Carhartt. It worked. They were already crowded around the beef-carving station chatting with Rashida.

Captain and Mrs. Tiggleman arrived next. They moved slowly, both in their late seventies. He had the chiseled profile of an Old Hollywood movie star, and her plastic surgeon had done admirable work. Already their chief concern was the weather. They began talking about it the moment they walked through the door. Louisa took their coats and Natalie whisked them off to the bar, assuring them a cocktail would soothe their worries.

“Nothing melts snow like whiskey,” said Captain Tiggleman, which made no sense at all.