Threemaykeepasecret,iftwoofthemaredead.

           —BENFRANKLIN,POORRICHARD’SALMANACK

           Threecolddayspassed.Thethermometernevermadeituptothezeromark,notevenatmidday.Shadowwonderedhowpeoplehadsurvivedthisweatherinthedaysbeforeelectricity,beforethermalfacemasksandlightweightthermalunderwear,beforeeasytravel.

           HewasdownattheVideo,Tanning,Bait,andTacklestore,beingshownHinzelmann’shand-tiedtroutflies.Theyweremoreinterestingthanhehadexpected:colorfulfakesoflife,madeoffeatherandthread,eachwithahookhiddeninsideit.

           HeaskedHinzelmann.

           "Forreal?"askedHinzelmann.

           "Forreal,"saidShadow.

           "Well,"saidtheolderman."Sometimestheydidn’tsurviveit,andtheydied.Leakychimneysandbadlyventilatedstovesandrangeskilledasmanypeopleasthecold.Butthosedayswerehard—they’dspendthesummerandthefalllayingupthefoodandthefirewoodforthewinter.Theworstthingofallwasthemadness.Iheardontheradio,theyweresayinghowitwastodowiththesunlight,howthereisn’tenoughofitinthewinter.Mydaddy,hesaidfolkjustwentstir-crazy—wintermadnesstheycalledit.Lakesidealwayshaditeasy,butsomeoftheothertownsaroundhere,theyhadithard.TherewasasayingstillhadcurrencywhenIwasakid,thatiftheservinggirlhadn’ttriedtokillyoubyFebruaryshehadn’tanybackbone.