He’s waiting every winter, when the lake freezes. Handsome. Enigmatic. She’s shy, still uncertain. She edges closer. Nervous, feet slipping. Kneels down, her hands pressing over his. He smiles up, mouthing words: “free me,” maybe; or “join me”—she’s not sure which.

This year she’ll break the ice. Find out.

Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.