"Oh, come on, you little shit!" Esther tapped aggressively at her computer screen. The feed didn't budge, save for that infuriating grey pinwheel. She groaned, digging the heels of her hands into tired eyes. The grey foredawn light was beginning to stream through her open window—it was that hour where all the birds decided to squawk as loud as they could, and she considered sticking her head out and telling them to can it.

The video juddered, and then it was going. "Yes!" she gasped, throwing herself down onto her stomach, glued to the screen.

The rink was lit in blue. Her breath caught in her chest as the sound of a crowd, tinny as her laptop's feeble speakers conveyed it, filled her room. "The first, and World Figure Skating champion for 2016, from Russia, Viktor Nikiforov!"

He was as beautiful as he had ever been. Under the spotlight that followed him out onto the rink, he was touched with something like the first thaw of the frost; pale, cold, and ephemeral. He looks miserable, Esther realized, with the clarity only a kindred spirit can receive. He greeted his adoring public with a soft, melancholy smile. Was this something brought on by age? She heard more of what her parents said than they thought, and they'd discussed the probability of his retirement more than once over the past few years—was he finally doing it?

At last, Viktor turned, heading to the podium and taking his place on the top block, raising another arm in acknowledgment to the cheers that erupted as he did so. Esther grabbed one of her pillows, hugging it to her chest and resting her chin there as she settled in to wait.

"The second, and winner of the silver medal, from Switzerland, Christophe Giacometti!" No audience could have rivaled the amount of noise made for Viktor, but the applause for Christophe came close. He emerged with the smooth, charismatic smile that had won hearts all over the world, blowing kisses and taking elegant bows. It went on for what felt like hours: finally, he turned and joined Viktor on the podium, shaking his hand before stepping up to his right.

Esther squeezed her pillow tighter, lifting her head and waiting with bated breath. "The third, and winner of the bronze medal, from Kazakhstan, Otabek Altin!"

She couldn't hear the audience or the commentary, not through the way her blood was suddenly pounding in her ears. He was there, taking his bow before the world, turning to join his competitors and stand on the podium beside a living legend.

"Beka," she whispered, through a throat that felt suddenly tight. It was with something like pride mingled with grief that she watched the ISU official string the bronze around his neck, watched him accept his bouquet with an inclined head and shake hands with the judges. He stood still and quiet as the flags unfurled behind them, and the Russian anthem began to play. Through it all, her eyes never left him, not when they stood together on the podium for their pictures, not when they took their victory lap around the edge of the rink; not until they all stopped before the camera and stood close, with hands on shoulders and victory-high smiles on their faces, did she close out the feed at last, power down her computer, and close the lid.

Esther sat in silence, her elation already a distant memory. She thought briefly of crawling back under the covers and sleeping the day away, but the sun was rising already, and for as much as she was exhausted, she was restless; it drove her to her feet, sent her to pace her floor and linger in front of her closet, chewing her cuticles, shifting from one foot to another like a reluctant thief.

With a sharp exhalation, she opened the door. In the corner of the upper shelf, there sat an unassuming cardboard box—it was just low enough that Esther could reach it standing on her toes, and so she pulled it down, carried it to her bed and set it there. The mattress dipped beneath her as she sat next to it, opening the flaps and reaching slowly inside.

Her fingers closed around the closest thing to the top: a smooth, dark wood frame, slippery with dust. Instinctively, she wiped around the edges before she blew on the glass, settling for the edge of her sheet to clean it off. Her view now unobstructed, Esther went still, staring intently at the olive branch engraved into the surface of the medal—it glinted darkly, reflecting the shadows in her room, but she knew that if she were to turn the lights on, it would glow gold.

Shaking her head, she returned the case to its fellows, took the box back to its place on the shelf, and closed the door firmly behind it. Dwelling on the past had no use.

She went to the shower, scrubbing firmly at her scalp to stave off its flaking, and picked a new t-shirt and pair of shorts. With her parents in Tokyo, the house was blessedly silent—she had that for today, at least. She opened the cabinet, retrieved her cereal, had a bowl, put her dishes in the dishwasher when she was done, and headed back upstairs.

That, apparently, was how long it took the entire world to implode.

It was the fourth thing trending on Twitter—typically, she didn't pay attention to that, but something drew her eye and found her staring at #StayCloseToMe.

It prickled at her brain. She frowned. Wasn't that the name of Viktor's program? Viktor was a legend, that much was true, but she had never known figure skating to break the headlines. Curiosity had her clicking on the tag, scanning for the source of the excitement.

Copious retweeting had taken place, but it was thankfully not difficult to locate the original post. Katsuki Yuuri tried to skate Viktor's FS program Stay Close to Me was helpfully supplied in English; her Japanese was a little rusty.

"Katsuki Yuuri," Esther murmured, clicking the YouTube link. Where have I heard that before?

The picture queued up: an empty ice rink, save the man out in the middle—he assumed a pose she had seen just hours before, and launched into the same routine.

Except…it wasn't the same. Not quite. The way Katsuki Yuuri skated was…heartfelt. Like his plea to stay close to me was hopeful, looking to his future, rather than a regret looking back. He drew her in, but before long, her brow was crinkling in the middle. Who is this guy? He's way too good to be nobody. She hit the pause, opened another tab, tapped into the search bar: Katsuki Yuuri.

The first thing to pop up was a Wikipedia page. Yuuri Katsuki (勝生勇利, Katsuki Yūri, born 29 November 1992) is a Japanese figure skater who competes in the men's singles discipline. So he was a pro, she had been right about that much—though it didn't look like he had that much to show for it, scrolling through his Career section. That's odd, he looked really good out there—not that she'd ever been able to understand scoring on men's singles, with all the quad politics underpinning everything…

"Aha!" she stopped near the bottom of the page. Katsuki qualified for the Grand Prix final for the first time in the 2015-2016 season. He finished in sixth place. A brief scan further told of his loss at the Japanese nationals just a few months prior—but Esther remembered him now. Her parents had been at the Grand Prix final last year, not for anyone in men's singles, but it hadn't stopped them from watching and gossiping about everything they saw, including the newbie from Japan who blew it…

His Personal Life section was nearly empty, except to inform that he was born in Hasetsu, Saga Prefecture, Japan, and that he attended the University of Chicago for the past five years, graduating only recently.

Esther went back to the first tab, resuming play on the video. She watched with her breath caught, her heart racing, a feeling that she'd nearly forgotten burning through her veins. She knew it for what it was, as the routine came to a close—she wanted to skate.

She sat back, letting out a long, shaking breath. It was a feeling that had come to her now and again, over the years—she had ignored it until now, perhaps because she had known all along what it really was.

Esther sat still and waited for it to go away. She closed her eyes, waited for the sudden rush of life to abandon her, but it remained. She was infuriatingly, brilliantly alive.

In a flash, she was on her feet—her head spun, it was so fast—tugging off her pajamas and abandoning them for workout gear shoved so far back in her dresser, she wasn't sure she even had it anymore. She zipped on a windbreaker, shoved the essentials into the pockets, and took the stairs down two at a time to race out the door. She patted down her front, phone keys wallet, barely stopping to lock the door before she was off.

She paused just a second at the gate. Where do I go? It had been long enough that she had to think before, right, Boylston and Dartmouth, and took off like a shot.

She was verging on manic as the she arrived at the bus stop to wait, bouncing from one foot to another. After what felt like an eternity of restless, low buzzing that prevented any other thoughts from taking root, the number nine arrived at last to whisk her away.

The hour was sufficiently early for her to get a seat, and she settled in for the long haul. Her head had quieted down somewhat, enough to allow some contemplation as she stared out the window. It's just like we used to do, was what she thought most often. If there was any justice in the world, Otabek would be sound asleep. If he's doing what I would do, she corrected herself, smiling as she recalled his incongruous penchant for mischief. It had been his idea, after all, to sneak out after dark, beyond the watchful eyes of her parents, and break their diets on Italian pastries.

Typically, thinking of their old antics was more than enough to send her into a low mood for at least an hour, but today, on the bus, bound for the rink, she was oddly untouchable. Esther had learned long ago not to look gift highs in the mouth.

She hopped off at Farragut and Second, darted across the street, and glanced over the bay. Slowly, she turned to the rink, seized with a sudden trepidation that threatened to turn her around and send her all the way back. She closed her eyes and balled her fists, pressing nails into palms to stave off the sudden wave of panic. Too late to turn back now, Esther. Opening her eyes, she went to the door and pushed.

It didn't budge.

"Huh?" She pushed again, but it was stuck fast—and only then did she see the hours, printed clearly on the door: TUESDAY 9AM – 10PM. "Oh." She checked her phone: 8:47.

She had time: and so, she went back toward the water, hiked one foot up onto the wall, and stretched. She ran through all the old motions, still familiar to her as the day she had abandoned them, and when she was done it was almost five after—she jogged back around, and this time, the door opened for her.

"Morning," the man behind the counter greeted her.

"Hey," Esther braced her elbows on the top. "It's just me. And I'll need a skate rental. I'm a size eight, I think. Shoes."

He went to the racks, plucking an appropriate pair and passing them to her. "Let me know if you need something different."

Esther unlaced her sneakers and handed them over. "How much do I owe you?"

Fees paid, she made her way over to one of the benches. "Ice maintenance is nearly done; you can go on once they're off."

"All right." She sat and laced up the skates—she'd lucked out and gotten the right size on her first try, and all that was left to do was wait for it to be time.

Finally, the rink was cleared, clean and unmarked, fresh as a brand-new snowfall. She hobbled out on her blades, feeling a bit like a newborn deer, and held onto the edge of the wall as she stared out onto the ice.

First step. She put a blade to the ice, and pushed…

…and nearly fell flat on her ass. There was a brief moment of panic, where she couldn't remember anything, and then it clicked. Her brain shut off and her body took over: she caught herself, and started gliding. Her ears were full of the slice of her skates; the edge of the rink wheeled before her eyes. She realized that she'd slid into compulsory figure eights, her muscles drawing out the motion from a long-forgotten place. Esther did a few more, and then took a longer line out, dared to kick off and hop a single toe loop. She turned back, skated the other way, jumped again—double toe loop. Grinning ear to ear, she raced for the center of the rink, bent her knee, and pushed off—

She had to put her hand down, but she stayed on her feet, and she had gone around three and a half turns—she was beaming, in a different world altogether as she hopped into a butterfly spin, rose up for a basic camel—she pushed off again; flying sit spin, scratch, and at last, she allowed herself to come to a halt, suddenly aware of how warm her cheeks had grown, how she was puffing from the exertion.

There was a figure behind the wall—Esther realized that the man behind the counter had come to watch her. She skated closer, enough to see the puzzled expression on his face. "Who are you?" was what he settled on, huffing an incredulous laugh. "I don't get many people out there pulling those kinds of moves."

Esther shrugged, and probably hesitated too long before she replied. "I used to skate competitively. It was a long time ago."

"Oh. Well, that explains it," he said, amicably. Internally, Esther breathed a sigh of relief—the conversation that her being recognized would bring on was one she'd prefer to avoid, preferably to the grave. "You looked good out there, though. I guess you still practice, then, keep everything sharp?"

Esther bit down on the honest reply, forcing a smile. "Uh—yeah, I guess it's just ingrained." Enough to survive three years off the ice, apparently.

"You ever think about going back?"

He might as well have brought the sky down. Everything else was drowned out, like she was underwater and it was all above the surface. Going back? For a moment, the ice was lit in blue, she could hear the music, the sound of a far-off crowd. She blinked, hard, and she was back in the ice rink, staring blankly at the greying skate rental man making small talk.

"I…" I do now.

"Eh, don't listen to me. I don't know the first thing about competitive skating. You know what you could do? Teach kids, they'd love to learn stuff like that. You might even be able to do it here."

In her own mind, Esther was already miles away. "I…have to go, actually."

The man paused, giving her another bewildered look. "You just got here."

"There's things I've got to do," she explained.

She traded her skates back, shoved her feet back into her shoes, and ran out the door with her thanks thrown over her shoulder. Belatedly, she wondered if she would ever see that man again, and whether the rink would know whom to give a letter addressed to grey-haired fellow working Tuesday morning.

She was home within the hour. Esther raced through her second shower of the day and collapsed across her bed, hair caught up in a towel. She'd had the entire ride back to formulate her plan, and she powered up her laptop, pulling her phone close and beginning the search for phone numbers.

"What? You've got to be kidding me. I would have to be completely insane to seriously consider this."

"This is a joke, right?"

"I'm going to have to say no."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do this."

"I know I'm a long shot. Everyone is going to look at me and see me screwing up, but…I love skating. I've ignored that for too long, and if I gave up now, without at least trying to find some kind of redemption…I'd never forgive myself."

"I understand. And I admire your courage, but unfortunately, I have a lot on my plate this coming season—and besides that, finding second chances in this world, especially after so long…"

"Yes," Esther said, quickly, quietly, wanting nothing more than to get off the line before her voice betrayed her. "Thank you anyway, Mr. Cialdini, grazie tante." She hung up, bit her lip, and wiped at the tears that started to fall. Stupid, all of it had been stupid, impulsive, everything she never let herself be, and for good reason—she let her heart run away with her once, and something like this happened. You have a future planned, you're going to Bowdoin, you're getting your degree, and then…

And then she'd waste away, regretting everything. Sighing, she picked up the list of scratched-out names. There had to be someone out there. Maybe there was some newbie coach, unafraid of the baggage carried by her name. Someone who wasn't thinking first of their image, or writing her off as an utter failure…

She wracked her brains, but came up with nothing. Sighing, she flopped onto her back, and resolved not to give up. I'm going to figure this out if it kills me, she vowed, silently, and nodded to herself. Reaching for her phone, she looked at the new messages: one from her parents, informing her of their imminent arrival late that night. She sent back a perfunctory thumbs-up emoji, backing out and tapping her next most recent conversation.

I want to skate again, she sent, right off the bat.

Lol, I guess we could go to a rink or something.

No, I mean professionally. I want to compete again.

Her wait for a reply, this time, was longer. She glanced at the clock, but it wasn't time for a class change yet.

Sorry, I asked to go to the bathroom. What brought this on?

Jay was the only real friend Esther had made during her year and a half in public high school—Esther had completed her credits by the first semester of senior year, and rather than hang around for another four months, she'd elected to graduate early. So far, they'd stayed in touch, though college was another looming threat to their commitment to each other.

I watched the Worlds broadcast this morning and I felt like I wanted to go skating, so I went to a rink. I thought I would've forgotten everything by now, but I remember the moves. Just skating them wasn't enough, though. I want to compete. I miss that, I realize that now.

Could you even go back? I mean, I don't know how it works.

That's what I've been trying to figure out. I've spent the last two hours calling coaches all over the US, but none of them want to take me on. I've either been out of it for too long, or I've cemented my reputation as a huge failure.

Maybe there are coaches outside the US that would take you?

I thought about that. It'd be a bigger adjustment, but if there's someone out there that might give me a chance, I don't know if I could turn them down.

Well, that's what I'd do. I have to go back to class now.

Okay, thanks Jay.

Talk to you later.

Esther dropped her phone back on the bedspread. There was a solution—her intuition told her as much—she would just have to be patient.

She hated being patient.

Her stomach chose that moment to start talking to her. "All right," she muttered, getting up and heading down for the kitchen.

There was a coach out there, somewhere, who would be willing to take on Esther Markowitz and turn a failure into a success. It'd make, at the least, for a decent movie adaptation on ABC Family.

The front door opened at eleven PM. Luggage was rolled in, and before long, Esther could hear the voices of her parents in the hall. Oddly enough, the customary tapping on her door didn't begin, leading her to venture out and peer off the landing.

Her mother and father were standing at the island counter, travel-rumpled and probably smelling about the same. There was a bottle on the counter, and as she watched, her father popped the cork and poured two flutes of champagne. Slowly, she pushed off the railing and came down the stairs, curiosity overwhelming her more avoidant tendencies.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Well, hello to you too!" her mother chirped, oddly chipper for someone who had a thirteen-hour flight and a mountain of jet lag, probably. "We're celebrating."

"Do you want any?" her father had never adopted several facets of American life, the drinking age being one of them.

Esther shook her head. "What for? None of your skaters medaled." She had checked the results on a whim, earlier that afternoon.

They exchanged a glance. Her mother shrugged. "The season is over. Just because."

"Uh-huh." Esther went to the fridge for a glass of water.

"No, there is something," her father said.

"Yes!" Her mother waited for Esther to turn to her. She raised an expectant eyebrow. Her mother pointed at her, drawing little circles in the air. "Your friend Beka got a bronze medal," she imparted, as if it were big news.

Esther blinked. "Did he now," she said, turning back to the Brita dispenser. She could practically hear them shrugging behind her back. For all her parents knew, she had stopped following anything related to the skating world three years ago. Esther let them; in some ways, she preferred it. She closed the fridge, sipping her water and facing them with narrowed eyes. "You're drinking champagne to celebrate Otabek?"

"Of course," her father nodded. "It wasn't too long ago that we were teaching him ourselves, and now he's on his way to the top."

"So what?" she frowned. "Otabek's not your student anymore. He hasn't been for three years. Thinking you had anything to do with him winning is just vanity." She didn't wait around for a reply, instead taking her water and heading back upstairs.

Esther's alarm rang at 6 AM: she was wide awake, tossing the covers back, already stripping out of the t-shirt she slept in and going for the clothes she'd tossed over the back of her chair last night. She tiptoed down the stairs, chugged a glass of orange juice and a protein bar, and trotted out the door.

She took an old route, one that took her down through Southie and past Boston University on her way back. She came back through the door a half hour later, her panting a testament to how out of practice she was.

Her parents were up by then, looking tired but awake. "Look at you," her father greeted her, with some surprise. "You haven't gone for a run in a while."

"I felt like it," she replied, going for the water. She knocked back a glass, poured another and settled on the floor with it to stretch.

Her mother regarded her with that detached, calculating interest. "Are you trying to get back in shape?"

"I told you, I felt like it."

"Hm." Why she insisted on pretenses, even though the three of them all knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hades that she accepted the explanation, Esther would never know.

The next day, Esther went back to the rink; she skated her compulsory figure eights, reacquainted herself with all of her old warmups, and started honing her techniques again. The day after, she headed to the gym—and all through the afternoons, she searched for someone who might just be willing to coach her. So far, all she could say was that she'd added non, nein, and no (in the Italian sense) to her list of answers. The European coaches had been fairly polite, though very straightforward. She could appreciate it.

Her mother, in the meantime, remained a bloodhound, feigning mild interest to mask what was surely a burning need to know. She held out for three days before she came tapping on Esther's door one night, hair still wet from her evening post-work shower, to sit on the edge of her bed and talk to her.

"You know you can tell me anything."

"Yep."

"This isn't because you feel like you need to lose weight, is it?"

"No."

"You're perfectly fine for the average American woman."

But not for a peak condition figure skater.

They'd had the same thought. Esther could see it in the gleam her eyes took on, as she leaned in and asked, almost conspiratorially, "You know, if I didn't know better I'd think you were thinking about skating again." She paused, perhaps waiting for an answer. Esther looked up from her screen, currently displaying Josef Karpisek's website, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're right," her mother shook her head, smiling ruefully. "You said you were done, and you've never given us reason to doubt before." She leaned over and kissed her forehead. "That's good. Trying to return at this stage…well, it'd be nearly impossible."

A cold rock settled in the pit of Esther's stomach. "Yeah."

Her mother patted her hand. "Goodnight."

"Night."

She left the door open behind her. Sighing, Esther got up to close it, glanced at the website again, and marked it for tomorrow. Switzerland was six hours ahead: far too late to call. And what would be the use, besides? Josef Karpisek had a top-notch skater to focus on; he'd be too busy aiming for Worlds to even think about risking his reputation on a known burnout.

Maybe she's right, she thought, as the pit seemed to grow colder and heavier, maybe this is impossible and I'm just stupid to think there'd even be a chance…

Standing, she went to her closet, pulling down her box and taking out her gold from Junior Worlds—then, she dug deeper, closer to the back, and took out an older case, brushing off the glass and peering inside.

The year before, she had taken Bronze. It was a moment that should've brought her joy, but there was only disappointment, and she'd spent her entire time on the podium struggling not to cry. She'd come off the ice thinking only of escaping as quickly as she could, already rehearsing the talk from her parents—you're talented, you're better than this, we think you're capable of winning gold if you would just try your best—

"Excuse me," she'd looked questioningly towards the man who'd said it, glancing around for who he might've been speaking to.

"Me?" She clutched her bouquet a little closer.

"I enjoyed your performance, Miss Markowitz. I can tell you worked very hard on it."

For some reason, his comment, simple as it was, stunned her. In the moment, she hadn't been able to tell why. "You…did?"

"Yes," he gestured to the medal hanging around her neck. "You're off to a very good start. If you keep working like that, I believe you could be the best skater in the world someday."

Esther blinked. She frowned, looked at the medal again, and then dropped it onto the coverlet, diving for her laptop and her phone, lying next to it.

Jay, I think I have something.

Is this about the skating thing?

Yes. I remembered something from my first Junior Worlds. There was a guy who complimented me after I got off the ice. He said I could tell I worked hard and it always stuck with me, but now I know why. My parents only ever told me I was talented, and when I screwed up it was always "you can do better than this", but he told me I could be the best if I worked at it. He made it so success was something I could fight for instead of a forgone conclusion that I had to make sure I didn't mess up.

…so you want some random guy you met at a tournament three years ago to coach you?

"No!" Esther muttered, aloud. She wracked her brains, trying to recall what details she could.

He was close by the ice, so he had to be important. I don't think he was an ISU official, though. He might have been a coach. Suddenly, her heart was thumping in her throat.

Even if he was, how would you find him?

Esther swallowed. I'd google the coaches of all the competitors that year until I found him.

That's insane.

It's the best I've got right now, Esther typed, furiously. Don't act like you wouldn't do the same thing if it meant you could find out where some author lived.

Fair.

Esther pulled up the ISU website, found the results page for Junior Worlds 2012, and started at the ladies' singles tab. He had a French accent. She started checking through, cursing under her breath when her googling the coach's name returned no results. She reached the end of the list—nothing.

Okay, don't panic, it's not uncommon for coaches to watch the other events. On a hunch, she tried pairs, but none of the men that her results returned were right. I'll know him when I see him. If I remembered his face all these years…

Men's singles was similarly unsuccessful. In desperation, she checked ice dancing, but he was nowhere to be found. "Damn it!" Had she imagined him? No, there was no way she could've dreamed up someone to say something so nice to her, not even in the wildest stretches of her imagination.

She picked up her phone, fully prepared to complain to Jay, when she had a thought.

Was he scouting? She turned back to her computer screen. Where did they hold Worlds that year? They were in Nice. Her heart jumped into her throat. He had a French accent. Who was at Worlds that year? She found the appropriate page, started the process all over again. Why the hell had her younger self not thought to ask this man his name? What if her older self's resurgent career hung on finding him?

There. Right in the middle of the ladies' singles, a French flag. It could mean nothing. Plenty of skaters had coaches from different places than their own. It was even common. But maybe, just maybe…

The skater had finished twelfth overall. Her coach was listed there, in small print, Emanuel Adélard.

She took a deep breath, copied his name, swapped tabs, pasted it into the search bar. "Here we go," she breathed, and tapped the enter key. His name popped up in a box to the right of the search results, but they didn't come with a picture: she clicked the images tab, and her breath caught.

Jay, she texted, I found him. She pulled up his Wikipedia page, her blood pumping with I found him, I found him, that's him.

It actually worked?

I will say this for the ISU, they're pretty well-documented. His name is Emanuel Adélard. He's a coach, he's from France, he's based out of Marseille.

So what are you going to do now?

Esther paused. What am I going to do now? The logical thing would be to wait until the morning and call the rink, introduce herself, ask if he remembered the nice pity pep talk he gave a teenager three years ago, and whether he'd be willing to coach her pathetic ass back to the big leagues—

Her fingers were already on the keyboard, searching for flights to Paris. I think I'm going to go meet him.

Like, in Marseille?

Esther looked over the ticket prices, thoroughly aware of the graduation money sitting in her bank account. Yeah. I want to ask him in person.

Are you crazy? What if he says no?

She bit her lip. It was a distinct possibility. She'd gotten nothing but no's so far. But this…

If he says no, I'll call my parents and grovel until they come get me, and I'll come back and go to Bowdoin and be miserable my whole life. If I don't do this I'm going to regret it until I die.

She pulled up the ticket page, fully aware she was probably spending entirely too much, but there was no waiting a few weeks for her now—it was do or die. She dragged her suitcase out of the closet and started rolling clothes, darted back to her laptop, and chose the earliest flight out in the morning—takeoff was five hours out. Esther packed in a flurry, taking everything she thought she might need, filling up a backpack in addition to her suitcase. By the time she was done, it was almost one o'clock, and she had a little more than four hours to go before she left.

Filled with grim resolve, she stripped off her pajamas, donned the clothes she'd picked out for travel and crept down the stairs with her bags. She slipped into the home office and collected her passports, toeing delicately by her parents' door, though she could hear them snoring within. She left a hastily-scribbled note on the counter. Going to see a friend. I'll be out of town for a few days.

It was with a soft sigh of relief that she closed the door softly behind her, locked it up and headed to the bus stop. She could sleep on the plane—maybe she'd be better at it than she had in the past. The bus deposited her at South Station: she boarded the Silver Line and watched the city go by in the window, eerie in the night.

Takeoff was three hours away when she arrived at the airport, strangely sluggish in the early morning hours. It was a stark contrast to the brightness of the lights. To Esther, time seemed to flow differently as she sat and watched the sun begin to creep over the horizon.

It still wasn't quite light when she boarded the plane—the first hints of sunrise were beginning to show as they began to taxi, and Esther watched the pinks and oranges tracing across the horizon as they lifted off, half-listening to the captain's announcements, stated in French and repeated in English.

She might have dozed, on and off. When she arrived in Paris it was almost six in the evening, local time—she had enough presence of mind to purchase an overpriced tea and packet of biscuits at one of the numerous cafes—her stomach was churning too much for her to consider anything else—and sat down at one of the tables to pore over her next leg of the journey. Soon enough, she had a ticket for the train down to Marseille, departing within the hour. Part of her wanted to be surprised that she hadn't received any messages from her parents, but when it came down to it, she really wasn't.

She boarded the train, showed her ticket, and settled in again to wait. Esther wondered, as she always did, whether she attracted any looks—she'd spent her first time in Europe petrified that they could smell the American on her, until a man had spoken to her on the train, asking her in German if she knew what the next stop was. I belong here as much as anyone else, she reminded herself, and turned to watch France go by. She'd almost forgotten how beautiful it was, how she'd missed it. There was a part of her that went quiet in Europe; like she relaxed and remembered how to be herself. She loved Boston, but this was a part of her somehow, in a way she couldn't quite put into words.

Her lack of sleep was beginning to get to her. She wrapped herself around her luggage as best she could, snapping wide awake for stop announcements and dozing on and off between.

By the time she reached Marseille, she had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours. Blinking through it, she soldiered on, stepping out of the station and looking around for a cab. The hour was late, but the sky was still light—and Emanuel Adélard's rink was open twenty-four hours.

That was where she directed the driver. It wasn't too long of a ride, but it felt like it took forever. Esther sat stock-still in the back, petrified halfway between her exhaustion and her racing pulse.

She thanked her driver as she disembarked, and turned to face the doors. Slowly, dragging her suitcase behind her, she pushed inside. Inside, there was a girl behind the counter—she jumped when she caught sight of Esther, who could only imagine how she looked right now: dirty, disheveled, sleep-deprived. "Bonsoir," she said, quickly remembering herself. "Can I…help you?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Adélard," said Esther.

"He's in the rink." The girl pointed. "He's almost done. You could wait out here, and I would tell him that someone is here to see him?"

Esther debated that course, shuffling her feet. "Uh…yeah. Sure."

The girl rushed through the door she had pointed out. Esther, in the meantime, did her best not to fall asleep on her feet. Come on, Esther, you made it this far.

Footsteps approached, and she blinked rapidly, standing up straighter. There he was, pausing in the doorway with a similar expression of surprise—it was undoubtedly him, a little older and greyer, but she'd found him.

"Mr. Adélard, my name is Esther Markowitz. You may not remember me, but several years ago we met at the Junior Worlds, and you complimented the effort I'd put into my program. That comment has stayed with me, and while I'm sure you're aware of my previous record in the Senior division, I want to try again, and I came here to ask if you would coach me."

That was what she'd had in her head, at any rate. What actually came out of her mouth was a slurred rendition of his name, followed by a faint awareness of an alarmed shout, the sensation of falling, and oblivion.

Esther juddered awake and immediately regretted it, cursing brilliantly as the sun rushed into her wide-open eyes. "God, fuck." Blinking to dispel the floaters, she looked at her surroundings, and immediately frowned. Where the hell am I? At first, the recent past seemed like a fever dream, but as it attained more and more clarity, her genuine hope was that she was dead, and the afterlife looked a lot like the guest bedroom of a charming apartment in southern France. No need to take Esther out drinking, she does all the stupid shit drunk people do completely sober! Tossing back the covers, she scrambled to her luggage, digging through the front pockets. Her wallet was still there, as were her keys, passports, phone (nearly dead, and showing about a dozen texts from Jay, as well as a single message from her mother: Have a good trip. I would prefer more notice next time you decide to do something like this. Be safe.

Of course. It wasn't a conversation with Leah Markowitz if there weren't any mixed messages. With a sigh, Esther opened Jay's conversation—

So when are you going to do it?

You didn't go now, did you?

Esther?

Esther, answer me.

IF YOU'RE ON A PLANE TO FRANCE RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO BE VERY UPSET

So help me, I will tell your parents what you're doing.

No I won't.

Just tell me where you are whenever you get these.

With a touch of guilt, Esther tapped out a reply. I'm in France. I went to Emanuel's rink. I think I passed out. I didn't sleep at all on the way here. He probably thinks I'm some kind of crazy groupie. Except, I think I'm in his house? I don't know. I'm freaking out. What should I do?

She paused, realizing that it was probably too early on the eastern seaboard for Jay to be awake to receive these. Breathing deeply, she sent another message. You're probably asleep right now. Don't worry, I'm fine. Text me when you wake up.

Dropping her phone back into the open pocket of her backpack, Esther proceeded hesitantly to the door, opening it a crack. She peered out, caught a whiff of eggs, and followed the scent all the way to the kitchen. There sat Emanuel, dressed like he'd woken up a while ago but not bothered to get ready, sipping on coffee and thumbing through his phone.

Esther hesitated in the door. "Good morning," she said, finally.

He turned, took her in, and looked—relieved. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Right. Passing out in front of people might lead them to think that you have something wrong with you besides your own unique brand of stupidity. "I'm sorry about what happened yesterday—it was yesterday, right?"

"Yes," Emanuel assured her, with a chuckle, "You haven't slept through the day."

"Am I keeping you from something?" she gestured at him.

He shook his head. "No. Today is an off day. Your timing is impeccable."

Esther folded her hands awkwardly in front of her. "So…this is your house?"

"It is."

"It's nice." She cleared her throat. "Thank you for…taking care of me. I'm so sorry—"

He shook his head. "I'm just glad you're all right."

"Right." She shuffled on her feet. It wasn't exactly how she'd pictured their first meeting.

"I have to say, Ms. Markowitz," he said, after a moment, "I was surprised to see you here."

Esther's eyes snapped up to him, and she felt herself blushing. "You know who I am?" she blurted.

"I found your passports in your bag," he admitted. "I wanted to know who you were."

"That's all right. I wasn't in much of a place to tell you."

To her surprise, that drew a genuine laugh from him—one Esther returned, hesitantly.

Emanuel was older, probably five or ten years ahead of her parents. His hairline was receding, and greying where it grew in, and his unshaven face showed more silver than black; but he was in good shape, and handsome in his own way, down to his rather distinctive nose.

"Well…" she began, unsure of herself. "Do you…remember me?"

"From the 2012 Junior Worlds?" he asked, surprising her again. "Of course."

"Really? But…" she was interrupted by a very loud rumbling from her stomach. "Um…"

"Of course, you must be hungry. Sit down. I'll make an omelet for you too." He went to the counter, where Esther could spy the remnants of such an endeavor. "You do like omelets?"

"Yeah. Of course." She sat down, feeling slightly useless, as she typically did when people insisted on doing things for her—something told her Emanuel wasn't going to accept her help, no matter how strongly she insisted.

"What would you like in it? Onions, green onions, tomatoes, spinach, pepper, pancetta, mushrooms?"

"All of that. Except for the pancetta."

"Ah. Are you vegetarian?"

She shook her head. "Kosher."

"I see." He finished scrubbing out the pan, rinsed the suds and set it right back on the burner, allowed the heat to dry the water before adding a splash of oil. "Your French is excellent. Did your father teach you?"

Esther frowned. "No," she said, after a moment. "I had a tutor for everything, language included. My parents wanted to make sure I would be able to converse with my competition."

"So you speak others, as well?"

"English, of course; German, and Russian. I know some Italian, Mandarin, and Japanese, too, enough to get by."

"Interesting." A handful of mushrooms and onions dropped into the pan with a sizzle. The smell was enough to have Esther's stomach speaking up again. "And why did you come here?"

His back was to her, so Esther couldn't see his face. His tone was still light, as far as she could tell (she wasn't as good as reading people in French), but it didn't seem like a pointed question.

"Well…" she chewed her lip. "I remembered what you said to me. About how you could tell I'd worked hard. It stuck with me, but I think I was too young to understand back then. All my parents ever complimented was my ability. For them, it was something that I just naturally had, and if I wasn't performing to that standard I wasn't trying hard enough. It really messed me up. I think…I'm only just starting to understand how much." Unable to look at him, she stared at the tablecloth, idly tracing the checkered plaid weave. "You saw my Senior debut. Everyone did…I had my entire identity riding on being the best, and when I failed, I…I imploded. I walked away, because that was easier than learning how to pick myself back up again."

Silence. The pan fell to a muted sizzle as two beaten eggs were poured into it. She turned to the stove, and found Emanuel facing her, watching with an indecipherable look. It should have scared her, sent her back to the tablecloth, but she met it unflinchingly.

"A long time ago," she started, "you said you thought I could be the best skater in the world, and I have a feeling you would be the perfect coach."

Emanuel considered this. His eyes lowered, his lip tensed thoughtfully, he turned back to tilt the pan and ensure everything was cooking evenly.

"It will be difficult," he said. "You've been absent for three years. It isn't terribly unusual for skaters to make comebacks, but your circumstances are somewhat unique."

"I know," she replied, quietly, already bracing herself for the final rejection, condemning her to college and a nine to five job, a husband from the class two years ahead of her, a picket fence, two point five kids and a dog—

"We'll have to start right away. You're young, still, and you look to be in decent shape already, so if we time it to the Grand Prix series—"

"Wait," Esther cut in, realizing her mistake late. "I…uh, are you saying yes?"

Emanuel looked over his shoulder, giving her a slightly quizzical look before he looked back to ensure the omelet made it all the way onto the plate. "I am, yes. Here you are." He set the plate down before her, along with a fork. "Cheese?"

"I…" she shook her head, vigorously. "No, no—you'll really do it?" she gaped. "I—well, I have to admit, I didn't think I would get this far."

"We can discuss the details later," Emanuel assured her. He sat across from her, looking meaningfully at her omelet. "Eat. That's my first order as your coach."

For a moment, Esther could only continue to stare at him. Then, heart soaring, she picked up her fork and complied. Above her, Emanuel smiled.