Page 126 of Jaded

At the end of the back yard, we reach a road crusted with ice, little more than a trail itself. But Olli marches across it without hesitation, without any fear of slipping on the slick surface—practically a native himself. In half a minute, we’re plunging into the woods across the road, a thicket of pines and faint scrub broken only by the thin scar of a trail.

“You come here a lot?” I ask, even though I know the answer. This too is packed down tight.

He doesn’t answer right away; we come to the edge of the trees where another road cuts through, and he leads us swiftly across. More trees envelop us, and the only sound is our boots crunching against the snow,the occasional whisper of a branch against a sleeve or a breath of wind through the trees.

“Every day,” he says finally, and those two little words are like a new window into his soul. All the hard-packed snow crunching under our feet—that’s him. All him. Treading this trail every day, stomping off into the mountains before practice, or maybe after, always moving, always going, going, going.

Fleeing the darkness.

Another Olli, beneath all the bright sunshine and glittering snow, a darker one. The Olli curled on the bed, beneath the covers, alone in the dark. The Olli leading me now across another street, before we plunge into true wilderness.

Our boots crunch louder as the trail starts to climb. Olli takes the lead, his breath puffing out ahead of him like a pale specter luring us into the pines and aspen, into the stark air and cold sky, into the mountains.

We don’t talk, just climb. The snow blankets the world in heavy silence, like a physical weight against my body, like a pulse in my ears, a tangible presence. Like the low thrum of absence following a concert’s roar.

The crunch of our boots feels hollow compared to that oppressive quiet, like it barely scrapes the surface of the depth of sound. A David to its profound Goliath.

Somehow, the faint whisper of wind through the trees feels louder, ear-shattering, the way it sets all the trees to dancing, witchy fingers clacking together in a sweeping sea of music around us. Maybe it’s because it belongs to the woods, to the silence, to the vastness of nature, and compared to that, we’re so very, very small.

A branch cracks somewhere in the distance, and I jerk to a halt, my eyes tearing through the trunks of trees and the sparse underbrush, trying to discern its source.

“Fox,” Olli says, and when I turn back towards him, a grin cracks his face. “Why you so jumpy, city slicker?”

“I’m not . . .” I grumble. “It just surprisedme.”

“You’re out of your element.” Olli nods knowingly, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. “Don’t have to be wearing Vans to show your true colors.”

“All right, Florida.” I slide up closer. “You talk a big game now, wait till winter shows up. We’ll see if you’re still laughing with four jackets on.”

“Canadian,” Olli corrects. “You forget I’m Canadian.”

He turns away, but not before I catch the glint of white teeth clamping down on his bottom lip, like he’s catching his smile before it can escape. But I see it, know it’s there, because I always know.

“Oh, right, yes.” I pace beside him as he starts to walk again, faster this time, our boots pattering against the snow. “And when was the last time you lived in Canada?”

He keeps his profile to me, gaze straight ahead, but I still register the twitch of his mouth as he fights a smile. “When I was seven.”

I bark out a laugh that cracks the cold wintery world like a shot. A bird twitters madly from a nearby tree, but I can’t regret the outburst, not when it comes so naturally, so easily.

“You’re in for a real treat, little ghost,” I say, grinning at his profile. “This city’s a different world when it’s frozen under two inches of ice.”

This time, he tosses his smile freely towards me. “Looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll leave you in these woods, see who’s laughing then?”

“Right. Go ahead and—”

He takes off running before I get the words clear of my throat, his boots padding softly in the snow. Shit; he’s serious. He’s going to leave me here, alone, in these immensely silent woods.

I take off after him.

He’s fast. Faster than he should be, especially considering what he just endured. Faster than me. Faster than any human has any right to be, in hiking books on a snowy trail switchbacking uphill into the mountains.

In mere minutes, my breaths are ragged, lungs and throat seizing against the cold, struggling to drag in that crisp mountain air. Damn, I should run more, smoke less, probably get outside every once in a while.

I slow. Fall farther behind on every turn, up every steep climb. Around yet another sharp switchback, I lose him—he’s a jackrabbit, bounding through the snow on those long, lithe legs. Tireless, like the mountain’s not wearing him into the ground, step by step, or like maybe he’s learned to overcome it.

Maybe he’s the wind through the trees—part of the world around us. Part of the snow and the silence. Maybe the combination of exertion and elevation is clouding my thoughts.

I let my steps slow. Olli’s nowhere in sight, or in hearing distance. I stop, listening, trying to hear past the ragged gasps of my own breath. But there’s only that thick, heavy silence, like the air itself has filled with snow.

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