“You’ll hear everything you need to know when we get to Aspen,” I said, setting a five-dollar bill beside my untouched cup.

By five fifteen that afternoon, the indoor ice rink at the youth sports complex smelled of cold iron, damp wool, and Zamboni exhaust.

I sat on a low wooden bench near the rink door, pulling the leather laces tight on Sam’s skates.

Sam sat perfectly still, holding his rubber skate guards in his lap as he watched the ice resurfacer finish its last lap.

He reached up with his middle finger and adjusted his wire-rim glasses on the bridge of his nose.