Christmas on Broken Ice(Fort Yukon, Alaska — late December, 19 __)I was only eighteen months old the winter the river tried to take us, so what I remember comes in flashes: my father’s parka smelling like woodsmoke, the squeal of sled runners in the dark, white breath pouring from Patch’s muzzle as he braced against his tug line. The rest lives in the stories my parents—Jay and Diana—told until the telling felt like memory