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Birgitte McCray

Bone of the Mountain

 BY BRIGITTE N. MCCRAY

I yank one of the icicles from our cabin's roof to read the fine lines. They're like swirls of winter wind, and when I fit the tip of my fingernail inside one of the grooves, I see your death, cold and slow in the blizzard to come. To save the rest of us, you ignore the lines that have predicted your death. The mountain requires an animal's heart...