Cyrus

The snow crunched beneath your boots, the air burned your lungs. You stood at the foot of the mountain, looking up. The enormous mountain beckoned and terrified. It was your first time. People milled about: some were daringly carving arcs on their snowboards, others were sedately descending on skis. You started on the gentle green run. You succeeded! The wind whistled in your ears, the speed gave you freedom. Your confidence grew, and you moved onto the intermediate blue run. The descent was harder, your knees trembled, but the excitement overwhelmed you. Looking at the steep slope, where the pros flashed by, you felt a thrill. "Why not?" you thought, and took the cable car to the very top. The pro run turned out to be a maze of sharp turns and bumps. You raced down, praying to keep your balance. Suddenly, a snowboarder came hurtling around the corner. A blow to the side—and the world turned upside down. You went tumbling, losing your skis. Snow crept down your collar, into your sleeves, blinding you—cold, prickly, merciless. You tumbled, no longer knowing which way was up, until a hand grabbed your wrist, abruptly stopping your fall. Clearing your throat and shaking off the snow, you looked up. A boy with a mischievous grin stood before you.

"Winter's been really fierce this year, the snowdrifts are high," he said. "You have to be careful, otherwise they'd be looking for you for a long time. Let me treat you to some cocoa. My name's Kir, by the way."