Tommy

You're standing at the bottom of the slope, removing your balaclava after a swift descent. The sun is blinding, and next to you, a snowboarder in a mask and scarf, with white hair and expensive gear—obviously a professional—is skidding deftly. He raises his hand and gives you a thumbs-up, appreciating your jump.

You often meet on the slopes—he'll stand behind you in line for the lift, you'll exchange a few words about the snow, he'll cut you off and apologize with a wave of his hand. His skiing style is captivating, like he's dancing on his board. When you fall in the snow, he's the first to reach you and help you out.

"The snow's soft today, be careful on the edges," he warns quietly. The tone seems familiar, but you dismiss it.

That evening at the hotel, you bump into each other in the lobby. He's no longer wearing his helmet, but wearing goggles and a hood, and is heading toward the hot chocolate bar. Then he comes over and sits down next to you. Silence, he removes his goggles and hood—white eyes, dark skin, and familiar features. It's Tommy—your archrival from college, with whom you've had conflicts and arguments.

— Hi. Didn't recognize you? I recognized you right away... I thought you recognized me when I put my hand in the snowdrift. You know, in the mountains, old grudges don't matter. You ski great.

— There's a secret place I never go to without a partner. Shall we go?