Carrying the smelly pail, Bridget entered the trees to the left of the lodge, opposite the path leading to Old Mag, and dumped her and Effie’s waste from the last two days. She gagged and banged the tin against a tree to knock out the frozen layer in the bottom.
Jake was nowhere to be seen, but she prayed he’d spent the storm in the trees, seeking what shelter he could. She’d return the pail, rewrapped her stinging toes, and go look for him. Stepping from the trees, a wide whirl of snow like a summer dust devil lifted off the frozen river. The shape, thin and empty, looked like Effie’s white underslip. The bit of ghost clothing danced onto the shore. Bridget stood fixed as it waltzed a few feet more before stopping and falling away. Was it an omen? If Grandma Teegan were there, she’d know
