“I like the lights,” said the girl.

“So do I,” he said.

“I think nature’s most beautiful when there’s nothing there — I mean, when it’s still the way it was in the beginning — but I like lights, too. I’m torn between the two and I know I always will be.”

Her voice broke, and Jack could think of nothing to say. Suddenly the wind turned and blew the smoke their way. They moved their log to the other side of the campfire. A few moments later, the wind changed again, and they took the log back to the spot they’d just left. No sooner were they seated than the wind turned yet again and blew the smoke right at them. This time they refused to move.

“The wind’s crazy,” said the man. “In a minute it’s going to change sides again.”

Half stifled by the smoke, eyes watering, they obstinately stayed on the log. The wind didn’t turn.

“I have an idea,” said the girl in an undertone. “Let’s pretend we’re changing sides, so . . .”

“Sshhh!” he said.

They got up, and positioned at either end of the log, they made as if they were going to lift it and move it to the other side of the fire. They stayed like this for a good minute, knees flexed and backs bent, but the wind, as if it understood their ruse, kept blowing in the same direction. Finally they gave up and took shelter inside the Volkswagen.

It was as cold inside as out.

Jack switched on the ceiling light and, to warm himself, hoisted into the “attic” all the baggage in the back of the Volks. The “attic” was the compartment just under the roof, which was enlarged when the roof was raised. When the baggage was placed up here, the back of the Volks was totally cleared and the seat could be pulled down to make a bed for two. The man stowed all their belongings in the “attic” except for the sleeping bags, blankets and the suitcase that contained their warm clothes.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little,” she said. “It’s the damp . . . Isn’t there a gas heater in the Volks?”

“Yes, but it’s never worked very well. It gives off a strong smell of gas and . . .”

“So we have a choice between death by freezing and asphyxiation?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get in my sleeping bag.”

“I thought Indians were never cold . . .”

“I told you, I’m not a real Indian,” she cut in, and muttered something that he didn’t catch.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He spread a flannel blanket on the bed for insulation and to prevent unpleasant contact with the vinyl seat cover. Next, he unrolled the sleeping bags, undid the zippers and put the pillows inside, then spread a warm woollen blanket over the bags. He accomplished all this without a word, and, despite the cold, he did his best to be quick, precise and efficient, as if it were his mission to prepare the bed for Princess Kateri Tekakwitha herself. When he had finished, he took some warm clothes from the suitcase: two pairs of wool socks, two sweaters, two tuques and two sets of pink Penmans long johns, made all in one piece, with a long row of buttons in front and a little flap, closed by a single button, in the back.