The Point, East Lake
Tuesday, 18 October, 6:54 a.m.
Johnny stepped to the water’s edge. The night had been not just cool but downright cold. Between the rounded rocks where shallow water lay still, he could see thin, patterned, crystal-clear sheets of ice. He bent. His left knee buckled. A stabbing pain shot up his thigh. He stood, gasped, exhaled, forced the leg straight, tight, relaxed. Again he bent, knelt. He slipped a hand into the cold water, grasped a thin piece, gently broke it from the rocks, lifted it, examined it. As his fingertips melted into the ice, he closed his eyes. He did not say a prayer, but in his mind he felt a prayer, felt a communion with his lake, his water, his spot in the universe. He put the ice against his forehead. The sharp coldness felt wonderful, alleviat
