He'd never seen an intruder on the mountain. The dirt trail that led up to the cave branched off a side road on the edge of town, and it was too rocky even for the dirt-bike kids. He stood at the cave-mouth, torn by indecision. He wanted to keep walking, head away farther uphill, away from the family's den, but now she'd seen him, had waved to him. His cold-numb face drained of blood and his bladder hammered insistently at him. He hiked down the mountain and met her. "Why are you here?" he said, once he was close enough to see her pale, freckled face. "Why do you think?" she said. "I followed you home. Where do you live, Alan? Why can't I even see where you live?" He felt tears prick at his eyes. "You just *can't*! I can't bring you home!" "You hate me, don't you?" she said, hands balling up into mittened fists. "That's it." "I don't hate you, Marci. I -- I love you," he said, surprising himself. She punched him hard in the arm. "Shut up." She kissed his cheek with her cold, dry lips and the huff of her breath thawed his skin, making it tingle. "Where do you live, Alan?" He sucked air so cold it burned his lungs. "Come with me." He took her mittened hand in his and trudged up to the cave mouth. They entered the summer cave, where the family spent its time in the warm months, now mostly empty, save for some straw and a few scattered bits of clothing and toys. He led her through the cave, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, back to the right-angle bend behind a stalactite baffle, toward the sulfur reek of the hot spring on whose shores the family spent its winters. "It gets dark," he said. "I'll get you a light once we're inside." Her hand squeezed his tighter and she said nothing. It grew darker and darker as he pushed into the cave, helping her up the gentle incline of the cave floor. He saw well in the dark -- the whole family did -- but he understood that for her this was a blind voyage. They stepped out into the sulfur-spring cavern, the acoustics of their breathing changed by the long, flat hollow. In the dark, he saw Edward-Frederick-George playing with his matchbox cars in one corner; Davey leaned up against their mother, sucking his thumb. Billy was nowhere in sight, probably hiding out in his room -- he would, of course, have foreseen this visit. He put her hand against the cave wall, then said, "Wait here." He let go of her and walked quickly to the heap of winter coats and boots in the corner and dug through them for the flashlight he used to do his homework by. It was a hand-crank number, and as he squeezed it to life, he pointed it at Marci, her face wan and scared in its light. He gave the flashlight a few more pumps to get its flywheel spinning, then passed it to her. "Just keep squeezing it," he said. "It doesn't need batteries." He took her hand again. It was limp.