At ten feet, Sher panicked. Perhaps she could still save him. If he could just get to him faster, to warm him, he would be fine, maybe lose a toe or two to a bit of frost-bite. Like that man in town last year. Spent a night in a snowbank, but he was okay. Only lost some toes and fingers. “Lucky son-of-a-b***h,” some said. “Protected,” others said. Sher pushed forward, swiping at the snow with her arms like she was like swimming. Certainly, he would jump up, laughing, wipe the frost from his face, shout “Gotcha! Ehhh!” and wrap his arm around her shoulder. They would trudge back to the house and sit at the kitchen table, play cards, listen to the evening WCCO on the radio. Fry up potatoes for dinner—in lard and salt with a handful of crumbled hamburger. After eating they’d stare out the din
