The nearest of the two islands wasn’t far once you’d reached Boulder, but it was exposed to the western woods. Soon, wolves would come wandering down from the mountains. The Restless Ones too, who were prone to drifting out of the darkness to stand in scatters across the ice, transfixed by the moon. Peter pushed the hood of his wolfskin back to improve his peripheral vision and briefly glanced round. Above the tree house, the sun was a fireball breaking across the mountains. High up on the ragged peaks the snow was pink, scorched by the bright burn of dusk. There wasn’t much of the day left. He jockeyed the staff, feeling for the right balance until it was horizontal inside his fist, then fixed his sights firmly on the nearest island and ran.

He made it to the halfway point then bent double, bracing both hands across his thighs to steady his breathing and stared at the ice. His shadow had all but gone now. He glanced back towards Boulder where lamplight from Darlene’s porch would’ve once lit the way. But it was dark now. Henry’s island too. Peter became aware of a nagging pain in his stomach and cussed himself for missing them both.

“Go away,” he mumbled. “Go away.”

Further out, way past the watchtower towards the top of the lake, there was no light at Cooper’s window now, either. This struck Peter as being strange, but he was pulled from his thoughts by another feeling. He wasn’t alone. He swung round, thrusting the staff forward. But it wasn’t a Restless One making its way towards him.

Two black plaits, poking out from inside a red hood, swish-swashed across the shiny breast of Tokala’s ski jacket as he approached. It struck Peter again just how gaunt his features were. His cheekbones were so sharp that his face couldn’t hide the framework of the skull beneath it. But even though the whites of his eyes had become dark pools after the journey his soul had taken from death and back, they showed something most grown men lacked. His boyhood. It was almost impossible to imagine someone like Bud or Henry being anything other than their current age. But not Tokala. The twinkle in his dark eyes told you he’d once been five. Then thirteen. The boy he’d started out as wasn’t lost in the man he’d become. They’d taken that journey together. And for a moment, Peter was so happy for the company, he completely forgot the matter at hand.

Peter smiled. “You’ve been fishing?”

Tokala hoisted his catch aloft, slapping the trouts’ golden bellies. “Yes. There’s good weed under the ice down by the Whistles. The waters were teeming.”

“How do you even know that? Is that a Cheyenne thing?”

Tokala’s eyes narrowed. “Fishing World magazine.”

“Oh.”

“The Oh My Cod! Thanksgiving Special.”