You Cannot Lie about a Mountain

1.


Over hot sausage rolls at the smallest train station in Vermont, Stella and I agree that it would have been worse to refuse Faith’s invitation than it would be to break our legs. We reason that we both look like skiers: we are of watery German stock, and since the daily regimen at Barrett Hall includes a three-mile run around the man-made lake, we have become quite muscular.

“I’m nervous,” Stella says. “I should have had the gin I keep in my drawer before we left.”

We leave the station to begin our ascent of Schmetterling Hill. At its crest, according to the map Faith drew us, her house flings its glass wings in every direction. I run my hand along a snowbank and offer some to Stella.

“It will settle your stomach,” I say.

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