There’s a superstition in our band: no one says the word good before we go on. You can say loud, tight, let’s try not to break anything expensive, but never good. That’s jinx bait.
Jean—called Grandma Love by strangers more often than family—felt that familiar tilt in the air. The almost-midnight tilt. Midnight wasn’t a time so much as a mood, a soft doorway between one thing and the next. She’d always been good with doorways.
She dragged it through the fresh snow to the small hill behind the apartment complex. The cold bit at her cheeks. The air smelled like minerals and ice—Earth winter, not Mars. He’d always said he missed winters most.
She set the sled down. Ran her glove over the wooden slats. Felt her heartbeat double-tap behind her ribs.
Then she climbed on.
