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Runner showed up three days ago, little clumps of ice stuck to a three centimetre long beard, his eyebrows white with frost beneath a snow-covered hat, his hair shaggy and wet, sticking to his fur collar. Father didn’t recognise him at first. Mother hurried his backpack off and ushered him into the bathroom, where he took a hot shower for a wasteful five minutes, sucking our boiler empty. I knew the man needed to eat and sleep, but all I could think was
Let’s go!
Although sharing a tent with him feels awkward, our hikes totally rock.

Now he’s walking only three steps ahead of me, yet he’s barely visible. The wind blows snow down from the clouds, up from the snowdrifts, horizontally off the firs. Tiny icicles needle my cheeks. My snow goggles are caked with snow, my gaiters are leaking snow into my boots, and my neck has a snow collar.
 

This winter grew harsh and that’s why Runner insists on crossing the mountains to the lowlands. Snow is good there, the more the better because it helps you survive in a contaminated place, he told me. Snow can be thawed and used as drinking water, while lakes, rivers, and groundwater are unfit for human consumption. We are trading the risk of dying of disease with the risk of dying of severe cold. But I’m not complaining. I’m happy out here, and I’ve never seen the lowlands with my own eyes.

There’s just this one problem with my feet. I can’t feel them, and although I’m trying really hard not to, I’m about to topple over.

Runner turns around and shouts something I don’t understand. The wind is picking up and howls into my face.

‘We’ll dig a hole over here and get out of the snowstorm,’ he says louder, pointing to a bolder with a snowdrift piling up on its side. ‘Can you use your hands?’

I yell, ‘Yes!’ but I have my doubts.

We drop our backpacks, unstrap the snowshoes, and use them to dig a tunnel. The snow is compact — slowing the digging but making sure our bivouac won’t collapse. I hope.
 

Runner is shaping a cave that will barely fit the two of us. The smaller the better — less dead volume to heat and less snow to dig out.
 

‘Fix sleeping bags and pads. I’ll cook tea,’ he says once he drilled an air hole into the side of the cave, and that’s all we speak until each pair of ice-cold hands holds a steaming mug of peppermint tea. We are chewing strips of dried meat, handfuls of nuts, and dried cherries.
 

‘In the morning,’ Runner says, ‘we’ll have to eat a hundred grams of butter each. Otherwise it will be hard to take in all the calories we use up hiking through the deep snow.’

The word “calories” alone makes my mouth water.

‘How are your feet?’

‘What feet?’ I joke, but he doesn’t think it’s funny.

‘Sleeping bag,’ he says and points. ‘Take your shoes and socks off first. Anything that’s wet or full of snow, too.’

I strip down to my woollen long-johns and sweatshirt, moving about carefully so as not to brush snow off the ceiling or walls. He extracts a set of dry clothes from my backpack and stuffs them into my sleeping bag. I wiggle in and get dressed in the confined space while Runner changes his clothes, too.

‘Okay, Micka, scoot over.’

‘You want to come in
here?
’ Does he even fit?

‘Yes. Move.’

Now I
am
worried. My hunting knife is in the pile of damp clothes and just out of reach. But the chances of him doing anything funny at minus twenty-five degrees Celsius might be low. I unzip the sleeping bag and move aside as far as possible. Runner opens his sleeping bag all the way, throws it over mine, and inches himself into our cocoon, but from the other end.

‘Feet under my armpits, Micka. That’s the warmest place.’

I burst out laughing when he pulls up his shirt and pullover, but I immediately do what he says. We are both on our backs, his legs sticking up above my ears, while my icy feet find the two warm pockets under his arms. Not that I feel the warmth, but I assume it’s there, judging by his wince.

‘What about yours?’ I ask.

‘They are okay.’

Sure. I send my hands up there anyway, slipping my fingers into his socks. Ice-cold. As I thought.
 

‘Feet under my armpits, Runner.’

I don’t need to invite him twice. He inches his large feet under my arms and I try not to squeal from the sudden drop in temperature.

‘Once you feel a little warmer, you can stuff all your wet clothes into the foot-end of your sleeping bag. They’ll dry overnight.’

Right now, I don’t feel like moving at all. Runner’s icy toes slowly grow lukewarm. My feet are regaining a little feeling, especially my toes, which now hurt as if someone chopped them off. I bite my cheeks and close my eyes.
 

‘Show me your toes, Micka.’

Reluctantly, I pull one foot from the hairy, but wonderfully warm Runner-armpit. He probes and presses, then sticks my foot back into the toasty place.

‘Superficial frostbite, nothing to worry about. Have more of the hot tea.’

‘Give me a moment,’ I hum, limbs aching, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. ‘How do you stick your feet under your own armpits?’

‘Excuse me?

‘I was just wondering what you do when you hike through the snow all by yourself.’

‘I would have walked another five hours to the next settlement, stuck my feet into warm water, sipped hot tea with something stronger in it, and sat as close to the fireplace as possible.’

‘Is it annoying to have a fifteen-year-old as company?’
 

‘Sometimes.’

I sneak my hand into the snow, grab a piece, and throw it into Runner’s face. ‘Old people are quite annoying, but what can one do about it?’

‘Micka, you really don’t give a shit about authority.’ A sharp grumble.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly.

A handful of snow hits me. ‘Question everything,’ he says without taking his eyes off the bumpy snow bivouac ceiling.

‘The next village is only five hours from here?’ I’m tired, but wiggle myself towards the teapot and pour a cup. ‘Tea?’

He hands me his mug and I hand it back, filled and steaming.

‘Five hours for me. With you, depending on how much snow falls tonight, it could be another day, or even two.’

‘I had no clue I was such a weakling.’ I try to put some acid in my voice, but all I sound is tired.

‘Micka, I’ve been doing this for years. It would be a shame if I hadn’t improved my hiking skills in all this time.’

He’s right, but it still rubs me the wrong way. I push his large feet from my bony armpits, pull on my socks and boots, and announce that I need to pee.

Once I’m back inside and our backpacks secure the entrance, I stuff a handful of nuts into my mouth, slip into my now-empty sleeping bag, and drift off within minutes.

I don’t know for how long I’ve slept, but my clattering teeth wake me. It’s no use to try to compact myself into a ball. I’m freezing cold.

Rustling tells me that my noise woke up Runner. I hear a zipper being unzipped and feel an arm and a layer of his sleeping bag being draped over me. He scoots as close as he can and I’m left to confusing thoughts about me hating hugs and all. But I’m so cold that it might be time for a compromise. I unzip my sleeping bag, nudge the one half of my cover underneath his, press my back against his stomach, and doze off quite comfortably.

We’re stuck in a tiny village high up in the mountains, with only three houses and two barns, surrounded by large meadows that will be dotted with cows and sheep as soon as spring arrives. The snowstorm was heavy, and it might take a month or two until Runner and I can pass over the mountains again. But for now, after we’ve rested and replenished our provisions, our path lies in the opposite direction — down and farther down.

This place is very different from my own home. People seem busier and closer to one another. They laugh and chat more, and it’s odd to see them embrace Runner and even kiss him on the mouth. I’d believed him to be more of the distant kind. But here, everyone kisses anyone on the mouth to say hello. They hug a lot, too. I did the hugging thing, but turned my head away when the kissing was about to happen. They didn’t seem to mind because I’m a stranger.

Now I’m sitting pinched between two sets of shoulders. An entire cow plus a vegetable field is spread on the table. Or so it seems. I’ve never seen such enormous amounts of food, wine, beer, and people in such a small room. I flick a finger across the kinked tabletop, imagining that the scents and noises can be moved like a cloth.

Outside, snow flutters against the windowpanes, settles, and scoots down with a slug-trail, forming white mounds on the sills. The black night sky has little opportunity to peek through the white onslaught.

And just when I think the room is impossibly overloaded, even more people enter. Two men with beads and coins in their braided beards, a woman with tinkling earrings and strands of silver woven through her raven-black hair, and two girls with colourful dresses and scarves around their heads call a cheerful, ‘Hello!’ The men shake snow off their long hair. One of them toes the door shut.

Runner turns his head as the word “Gypsies” sounds over the chatter. The woman nods at him, then talks to the two girls. For a moment, it looks as if Runner knows them, but there’s no hugging and kissing, so I turn my attention back to my plate. The man next to me eats a hunk of fried udder as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Fat dribbles down his chin and hits the potatoes on his plate. I’d rather stick to my ribs. The beer makes me lightheaded and I find myself laughing at jokes I don’t even understand.

Rubbing my tongue against my palate, I try to describe the flavour of the room and the people. The hum of conversation tastes of candied apples, and the surroundings are spicy, but I can’t tell what spices. Nothing green, that’s for sure. Rugs decorate walls and floor. A large fire heats the room, and it’s not even used to cook the meat. Where I grew up, this would be considered wasteful. A slight unease trickles down my neck, caused by the loud chatter, the laughing, the large amount of food, the jokes, and colourful clothing. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m almost expecting someone to enter, point at me, and drag me out by my ears to whip me for quietly taking part in this luxury.

I shrug and grab another piece of fried ribs. When I look up from my plate, I see Runner approaching the Gypsies. The woman is introducing the two girls who must be her daughters. One looks like she’s my age, the other is probably three years younger and is now taking Runner’s hands into hers. They stick their heads together and chat.

There’s still space in my stomach for a few string beans, I think. They glisten with butter and slide down easily. Maybe a third serving will fit in, too. When I reach out to the string bean pot again, my hand freezes mid-way.

The girl sits on Runner’s lap. Both talk and laugh and hug. I’ve never seen him so engrossed by anyone. She’s whispering in his ear, pressing her face to his neck. His cheeks are shiny, his eyes glistening, and he seems nervous and excited at once.

I make an effort to blink really hard, but there she is, still only a small girl. Her arms are skinny, her chest flat, and her face that of a child. She’s barely twelve. My skin crawls. All that hugging and mouth-pecking suddenly makes me sick. I try not to stare, but I keep my eyes on Runner for the rest of the night. All the while, my brain is ringing with what my mother repeated throughout my childhood: “Men always only want one thing, Micka.”

When everyone is fed and tired and the room gradually empties, the Gypsies bid their farewell. The girl gives Runner a kiss on his mouth and he holds her to him, mussing her hair, kissing her in return.
 

The beef ribs and string beans want to get back out of my stomach. My mother’s “Certain girls get what they ask for” echoes in my head.

The Gypsy woman walks up to Runner, leans close to him, and speaks into his ear. He’s positively blushing, smiling, beaming even, and then he’s coughing into his hand.

Did she just…

Runner catches my gaze. ‘Micka, you look ill. Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ I croak through clenched teeth. ‘Tired.’ If I open my mouth too far, I’ll puke.

He waves at a broad-chested woman with short grey hair. ‘Martha, I think Micka is getting sick. Look at her.’

She looks down at me, her eyes widen. ‘Good Lordy!’ She lays her palm on my forehead, hums, and says. ‘Exhaustion, I’d say. Into bed with you, little one.’

I’m almost grateful Martha calls me “little one,” as it provokes me enough to move my stunned muscles.
 

She shushes me into the tiny room where Runner and I are sleeping, squeezes my shoulder, and offers to help me undress. Shocked, I shake my head. As soon as she’s out of the door, I fetch my hunting knife and position myself at the window. Do adults believe that kids deserve this when they behave in a…whatever kids-like way? Was that the reason for everybody back home to ignore what the Old Geezer did to little boys? I don’t even know what his name was.
The Old Geezer
was like a keyword for really bad shit.