The white field is striped with tree shadows like a map of the Midwest, blue highways all running parallel. It’s impossible not to get lost.

A wet spring snow clings to everything and coats both ends of the porch, where something very tiny has left an arrow-straight trail of dots.

That metronome-like sound—could it possibly be a chipmunk? I cup hands to my ears: no, it’s just slow meltwater. But the clock is ticking.