Marshmallow clouds dozed in an ocean sky. The air was ice, so cold that you could count every goosebump from your shoulder to your fingers. A lone cabin lived in the center of a valley of glaciers, and a crystal lake kept it company,

There you were, perched on the bow of the rickety raft we called a sailboat. Shocks of lemon hair whipped across your face, bleached white by the long summer sun. Flames sparked in your blueberry eyes as you leaned down to nudge the crystal-clear lake with your nose.

“Geronimo!”

At almost-but-not-quite nine, you had more guts than I could muster in my eleven-year-old body. I shivered, a leaf preparing to fall, while you nose-dived into hypothermic melting ice. Without a second thought.

Standing there, with only my thin swimsuit to protect my cold pale body, I wished for your fearlessness. I wished for a dose of whatever elixir made you either crazy brave or crazy stupid.

Of whatever kept your bare feet from crystallizing on the deck.