it’s

           spring

           and

           the

           goat-footed

           balloonManwhistles

           far

           and

           wee

           —E.E.CUMMINGS

           Shadowwasdrivingarental,andhecameoutoftheforestslowly,about8:30inthemorning,drovedownthehilldoingunderforty-fivemilesperhour,andenteredthetownofLakesidethreeweeksafterhewascertainhehadleftitforgood.

           Hedrovethroughthecity,surprisedathowlittleithadchangedinthelastfewweeks,whichwerealifetime,andheparkedhalfwaydownthedrivewaythatledtothelake.Thenhegotoutofthecar.

           Therewerenomoreice-fishinghutsonthefrozenlakeanylonger,noSUVs,nobodysittingatafishingholewithalineandatwelve-pack.Thelakewasdark:nolongercoveredwithablindwhitelayerofsnow,nowtherewerereflectivepatchesofwateronthesurfaceoftheice,andthewaterbeneaththeicewasdark,andtheiceitselfwasclearenoughthatthedarknessbeneathshowedthrough.Theskywasgray,buttheicylakewasbleakandempty.

           Almostempty.

           Therewasonecarremainingontheice,parkedoutonthefrozenlakealmostbeneaththebridge,sothatanyonedrivingthroughthetown,anyonecrossingthetown,couldnothelpbutseeit.