Heading west across the plains the previous afternoon, there had been a first whisper of green among the bleached grass. It was the last day of March and a vestige of plowed snow lay gray along the highway’s edge. And the sole witness to their leaving was a grizzled dog who stood watch at the edge of town, its head lowered, its eyes ghost-green in the headlights.

The little town had yet to wake and they drove quietly north along Main Street, past the courthouse and the gas station and the old movie theater, through pale pools of light cast by the street lamps, the car’s reflection gliding the darkened windows of the stores. Before they climbed into the car they lingered a moment, just stood there listening to the silence and gazing west at the mountains silhouetted by stars. It was stiff with ice and crackled in his hands as he balled it. The boy fixed their skis to the roof while his father stowed their packs then walked around to remove the newspaper pinned by the wipers to the windshield. The old station wagon was the only car there, its roof and hood veneered with a dim refracting frost. Their breath made clouds of the chill air and their boots crunched on the congealed gravel of the motel parking lot. They rose before dawn and stepped out beneath a moonless sky aswarm with stars.

The divide book nicholas evans