The wolf darts out past my legs, down into the snow, and cuts through the trees. “Fin!” I call, but he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even slow his pace.

I run before I lose him, before he slips into the trees and is gone. Maybe he knows where she is, maybe he’s found her scent. I chase his narrow path through the snow, along the row of summer homes, until he finally stops several houses down, his tail dipped low, ears forward.

Music wheezes out from inside the house, and through the lower windows I can see several boys from camp. They’ve broken in—they’re having a party.

Fin whimpers again, nose sniffing the air, and I touch his head—unsure why he’s come here, to a house that isn’t his. I follow his gaze up to the second floor of the home.

Someone is at the window.

A girl, face barely visible from the other side of the glass.

Her.

Something’s wrong, some hint of panic in her eyes. I don’t go to the front door—I don’t want the others to see me. So I leave the wolf in the snow and use the lowest window to hoist myself up to the edge of the overhanging roof. My fingers grip the gutter, and I swing a leg onto the upper ledge, just like when I used to climb onto the roof of my neighbor Nate Lynch’s house, when we’d drink beers he’d swipe from his dad’s garage. It feels like a hundred years ago now—a whole different life, far away from these mountains. But scaling up the corner of this house is no different. Aside from the wet, slick snow.

I reach the window on the second floor, crouching low away from the wind, and tap against the glass.

Nora lifts her head to face me. She scratches her hands through her hair, her eyes cautious and dark in the shadow of the room.

“Nora,” I say against the glass, pointing at the window for her to unlock it. But she doesn’t move toward me. She takes a step back. And maybe I don’t blame her. Maybe I’m the villain. My feet slip an inch on the snow, but I right myself before sliding toward the edge of the roof. “Please,” I say, unsure if she can hear me.

She closes her eyes, as if she doesn’t think I’m real. As if I might vanish if she wishes for it hard enough. But when she opens them, I’m still here. Her mouth sets in place and she takes two swift steps toward the window, reaches out for the lock, and slides it free.

I place my palms against the sides of the window and push it up in the frame, then duck into the room, bringing the cold air and snow with me.