Peter looked back across the lake towards the boathouse with its sunken roof as weary as an old nag’s back. Not even two months had passed since he and Cooper first shared a kiss in there. Barely any time at all given the years spent waiting. Of course, they’d kissed many times since then. Out on the trail, whenever their kisses came, they arrived as passionately and numerously as the snowflakes dancing across their skin. But they’d only kissed as boys that one time in the boathouse, before their picture-book vision was stolen.

“Everything’s changing,” said Peter.

“And you won’t let anything else change.”

“I can’t.”

“And you’re scared of Cooper changing further.”

“He won’t cope in a town.”

“Or perhaps it is you who’s worried you’ll cope too well, and then Cooper will change his mind about you.”

Peter looked up, a sting right in his belly. “No. That’s not it.” Then, “I don’t know.”

“Peter.”

“It’s OK.”

“Peter, listen to—”

“Why did you make out it’s our choice whether we come with you to that town or not?”

Peter winced. That’d come out sounding sharper than it meant to.

“It is your choice,” said Tokala.

“But you told us Yellowstone had been evacuated.”

“And that is so.”

“Except we found a family of Returnees out there.”

“Daisy and her partner Wyatt, yes. When Terri and I brought news of the town in West Wranglestone to the community living there, they chose to stay back, as you and Cooper may indeed choose to stay back, also.”

Peter nodded. “They’re dead.”

Tokala’s eyes widened, the effect of such news so instantly visible that Peter almost took grim pleasure at seeing alarm overtake such calm features.

“Someone must’ve known they were still out there,” Peter went on. “Yellowstone is so remote, why else travel up there? And now they and their baby are dead.”

Tokala closed his eyes. “They must have sent someone out after us.”

“So, is that how it works?” Peter asked. “Is that the choice we’re left with?”

“No. Not this. Not to deploy Ghost Rangers to kill anyone who refuses to come back. They promised us they wouldn’t do this.”

Peter stepped away and the words Ghost Ranger seemed to harden from mere words into a cold presence standing there.

“They?” he whispered. “Who’s they?”

But his whispers went unheard. The burning flush of pink across the mountains faded into blue and Tokala gazed up, seemingly unburdened by the troubles Peter had brought to him.

The day had died. Only wisps of cloud and the downy breast of the snow goose passing overhead remained dipped in pink. All around, carried down by the inky darkness, came the stars.

“Can you sense the night is coming, Peter?” he said.