December 7, 1941 -- Bullfrog, North Dakota

Standing in the doorway of his grandfather's house, Carter bent low to pull the straps on his skis a little tighter before he stepped out onto the blanket of pristine white powder that had fallen during the night. The sun was just starting to poke its head above the horizon and the world was quite. Behind him, his family slept. Before him, there was only an unbroken sheet of white snow.

The ground was as yet unmarked and Carter was almost hesitant to be the first to break the pristine surface. But soon the town would be stirring and this beautiful moment would be lost. So he made the first step, hearing the snow compress beneath his feet and seeing his white breath hover in the air before him.

Before he turned to grab his poles, he reached up to pull his toque down closer over his ears. Then, with no further interruptions, he started off briskly for the fields that ringed the town. There was no sound aside from the soft whisper of the snow passing beneath his skis and the low whistle of the wind as it shaped the loose powder.

Civilisation was soon left behind and there was only an expanse of white before him. The roughness of the ploughed fields was smoothed over by the snowfall. The trees, covered in the thick hoar frost of morning, reached the leafless branches like hands towards the heavens. They sky was grey, not the leaden grey of impending rain nor the hazy grey of fog but the silvery grey of a pre-dawn winter morning.

The ground sloped gently upwards and Carter mounted the crest of the small hill with strong practiced strides. It had been almost a year since he had last been out with his skis, but it was an easy rhythm to fall into and Carter doubted if he could ever forget this feeling of gliding smoothly over the world. His breathing rose and fell in tandem with his skis as he propelled himself forward. It was almost effortless.

Turning, he skied alongside the uneven log fence that portioned off the land. The rusted wire was coated in a translucent layer of ice that hung in inverted spires. Carter paused to break off one of the largest. He pulled his scarf down away from his mouth, reaching out a tongue to taste the icicle and revel as the cold water dripped down into his mouth. It was water that was pure. In his mind, it was water as it was meant to be tasted.

Then, with a powerful stroke, he was off again, building up speed with each stride. He flew along the fence towards the place where he knew that the wires would be dipped low enough to step over. Then, it was into the broad expanse of the field where he could see straight and uninterrupted until the earth curved away into the rising sun.

Around the radiant sun, the sky was tinted with the most delicate shades of pink and orange, one fading into another, swirled in on themselves until it was impossible to distinguish where one left off and the other began. It took Carter's breath away. It was almost enough to make him forget the last time he had greeted a morning this way.

'Hey, Andrew,' he could almost hear the voice that had echoed over the snow, 'slow up a minute. I just want to watch this.'

Just as he had that time, he slowed his pace, letting himself drift to a stop on the flat ground. There should have been an answering whisper of another pair of skis beside him. 'It's times like that I wish I were a painter,' Dan had breathed softly beside him, not wanting to raise his voice enough to disturb the stillness.

And the two of them had stood in silence as the sun broke slowly over the smooth curve of the earth and the colours of the sky grew bolder and deeper. They had pulled down their scarves to let the wind play softly over their faces and pulled off their toques to let it play through their hair. They had watched the sky until the image was fixed forever in their minds.

'It's almost enough to make you forget,' Dan had said. His voice had been hushed, almost reverent as the sunlight danced over the snow, throwing thousands of tiny rainbows. It was a last forty-eight hour pass before shipping out and too far to go home. Carter had come with the Monaghans to meet him halfway. Carter's grandfather had volunteered his house. And so they had met one more time.

"Almost," Carter answered softly, even though he was the only speaker.

The letter had finally come to Dan's parents only weeks before. Pilot Officer Dan Monaghan was reported missing on a bombing raid over Germany. Seven crew members, four parachutes: no one knew whose parachutes. Of course, the telegram had come before that. And Dan's letters continued to come, even now, all addressed before he had been reported missing.

There was still hope. There had been four parachutes. Four parachutes descended into Germany. Four airmen had survived. No one could tell which four crew members had managed to claw their way out of the burning bomber. No one could tell which three had fallen with the bomber. The Red Cross took time to work. It took time to sort out who had lived from who had died. And then it took time for the news to pass through censors and governments from one nation to another until it finally made its way back to the anxious families. There was a four in seven chance.

Carter arrived back at the house before anyone else had risen and hung his parka on the hook beside his brother's. He leaned his skis back up on the rack and made his way silently back to bed. He lay wrapped in the warm quilt that his grandmother sewn long before he was born and tried to forget that only a year ago Dan had been on the other bed, snoring softly under his own quilt.

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" Carter awoke to Brian hovering over his bed. "We've been up for ages." Brian started for the door as soon as he saw that Carter had opened his eyes. "We can't eat without you," he called over his shoulder.

Carter sat up and dropped his feet to the hardwood floor. He pulled his clothes back on and padded down to the kitchen in his stocking feet. His family was gathered in the cheery room. His grandfather sat at the head of the table, deep in conversation with his father. Brian and Chris sat at the table, napkins spread out across their laps, ready to eat already. Anne stood with her mother-in-law at the stove, ladling oatmeal into bowls.

"I see you finally decided to get up," Chris laughed, looking pointedly over his shoulder at the clock. It had been two hours since Carter had returned from his pre-dawn trip.

"I looked in on you," his mother said, "but you were sleeping so peacefully I thought it a shame to disturb you." She took several filled bowls in her hands and moved to set them on the table before the waiting men.

Carter took his own seat at the table. Swift Eagle, Carter's grandfather, looked up from his discussion to catch Carter's eyes. Carter was embarrassed. He thought at first that he had disappointed his grandfather. Then Swift Eagle's eyes, undimmed by age, darted quickly to the ski rack where a little puddle of water could be seen beneath Carter's skis, if you knew what you were looking for.