‘Nine thousand, Mom! I got nine thousand! Yeees!’

Katie stood behind her son, and ran one thoughtful hand through his straight black hair. ‘Bed, Billy boy. Now.’

‘You said I could wait up and see Dad,’ he replied without taking his eyes off the grey plastic block in his hand.

‘Dad’s stranded in the storm over at Stoke. He’s coming home tomorrow, so that means bed for you, right now.’

She leaned over and switched off Billy’s game.

‘Aw Mom!’

‘I said now, Billy. Your hockey kit’s at the foot of your bed. You forget to put it in your bag again tomorrow, then you’re on your own, kid. I’m not driving round to school with it.’ She turned to leave the room.

‘Mom?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Dad won’t be at home tonight at all?’

Suddenly he looked worried. Katie went back and joined him on the sofa.

‘It’s okay. Like I said: he’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Can Bart sleep with me tonight?’

Katie tried to look hurt. ‘Oh, so Jess and I won’t do for company then? I keep forgetting, we’re just sappy girls.’

Billy put his hand in hers, and looked into her eyes with such concern she already regretted the joke. ‘You do fine. I just want Bart with me. It’s important.’

Katie squeezed his little hand. ‘Sure. If you can get him in. Good luck. You know what he’s been like.’

‘Great!’

‘Now go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’

Her son bounced up and hopped on one foot to the door, singing as he went. His nine-year-old mind had already moved on to other matters. Likewise, Katie’s thirty-four-year-old mind had drifted back to her husband, worry and anxiety drilling into her. It was wrenched back to reality by the sound of Bart bounding up stairs with Billy, as the dog knocked over the frosted glass vase on the landing.

She smiled, and went to play at being stern.

When dawn came on January tenth it revealed the best snow conditions Silver Ski Company had seen for fifteen seasons. It also brought Estelle Reader the worst day of her life.

When they brought back what was left of Joe around one-thirty, Craig had been first at Estelle’s door, his face a grey mask of grief. Craig thought about the kind of suffering you see in the movies, where widows thank the policeman, squeeze his hand, and sit quietly in a chair absorbing the news. He thought about it as Estelle fell to her knees gurgling like a pig being bled, clutching at Craig’s jacket with fists like claws. She writhed on the floor and tore at the rug, saliva running from her mouth as she grunted and panted in the pain of her despair, until Craig hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto a chair.