Donny Atherton screamed silently down the mountain on the black diamond trail. He didn’t get the chance often these days; when on skis lately he was teaching newcomers to the sport and his days were filled with the bunny slopes and the green trail, maybe the blue on occasion. When the opportunity presented itself, he relished being able to take on a course more suited to his years of expertise. He cleared his mind of her and settled into the sensations of moving at speed, wind whipping his hair, the feel of his skis, shifting his weight as he traveled down the slope with a grin. When he reached the bottom, he chuckled. He’d forgotten how good running a black diamond could feel. He scanned the skies. “Just enough light for one more run,” he said to himself, and began working his way over to
