"I have something for you." The last bitter days of winter imprisohe whole band. A snowstorm and freezing temperatures made travel outside of camp impossible. Most of us spent night and day under cover in a drowse caused by the bination of cold and hunger. Speck stood above me, smiling, a surprise hidden behind her back. A breeze blew her long black hair across her face, and with an impatient hand, she brushed it aside like a curtain.
"Wake up, sleepyhead, and see what I found."
Keeping the deerskin ed tight against the cold, I stood. She thrust out a single envelope, its whiteness in relief against her chapped hands. I took it from her and opehe envelope, sliding out a greeting card with a picture of a big red heart on its front. Absentmindedly, I let the envelope slip to the ground, and she quickly bent to pick it up.
"Look, Aniday," she said, her stiff fingers w along the seams to carefully tear the seal. "If you would think to open it up, you could have two sides of paper—nothing but a stamp and address on the front, and on the back, you have a blank sheet." She took the card from me. "See, you draw on the front and back of this, and ioo, go around this writing here." Speck bounced ooes in the snow, perhaps as much out of joy as to ward off the chill. I eechless. She was usually hard as a stone, as if uo bear iion with the rest of us.
"Youre wele. You could be mrateful. I trudged through the snow t that back while you and all these lummoxes were nid cozy, sleeping the winter away."
"How I thank you?"
"Warm me up." She came to my side, and I opehe deerskin rug for her to snuggle in, and she ed herself around me, waking me alert with her icy hands and limbs. We slid ihe slumber party uhe heap of blas and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke the m with my head pressed against her chest. Speck had one arm around me, and iher hand she clutched the card. When she woke up, she blinked open her emerald eyes to wel. Her first request was that I read the message ihe card:But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Shakespeare, So 30
There was no nature, no addressee, and whatever names had been inked on the envelope had been smudged into oblivion by the wet snow.
"What do you think it means?"
"I dont know," I told her. "Who is Shakespeare?" The name seemed vaguely familiar.
"His friend makes all his troubles end, if he but thinks about him ... or her."
The sun rose above the treetops, warming our peaceful camp. The aural signs of melting began: snow sloughing off firs, ice crystals breaking apart, the thaw and drip of icicles. I wao be aloh the card, and my pencil burned like an ember in my pocket.
"What are you going to write?"
"I want to make a dar, but I do not know how. Do you know what day is today?"
"One day is like another."
"Arent you curious about what day it is today?"
Speck wriggled into her coat, biddio do the same. She led me through the clearing to the highest poihe camp, a ridge that ran along the northwestern edge, a difficult passage over a steep slope of loose shale. My legs ached when we reached the summit, and I was out of breath. She, oher hand, tapped her foot and told me to be quiet and listen. We were still and waited. Other thahawing mountains, it was silent.
"What am I supposed to hear?"
"trate," she said.
I tried, but save for the occasional laugh