When we reached the turnoff, Decker flew down the hill in six quick strides. I sidestepped my way down the embankment until I reached him, standing at the edge of Falcon Lake. I bent over, put my hands on my knees, and gulped in the thin air.

“Give me a minute,” I said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

My breath escaped in puffs of white fog, each one fading as it sunk toward the ground. When I stood back up, I followed Decker’s gaze directly across the center of the lake. I could just barely make out the movement of white on white. Decker was right. Even if I reversed my jacket, we’d be hopeless.

Under the thick coating of white, a long dirt trail wove through the snow-topped evergreens along the shoreline. Decker traced the path with his eyes, then turned his attention to the activity on the far side. “Let’s cut across.” He grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the lake.

“I’ll fall.” My soles had traction, like all snow boots, but not enough to make up for my total lack of coordination.

“Don’t,” he said. He stepped onto the snow-covered ice, waited a second for me to follow, and took off.

In January, we skated across this lake. In August, we sat barefoot on the pebbled shore and let the water lap our toes. Even in the peak of summer, the water never warmed up enough for swimming. It was the first week of December. A little soon for skating, but the local ice-fishermen said the lakes had frozen early. They were already planning a trip up north.

Decker, athletic and graceful, walked across the lake like he had solid ground beneath his feet. I, on the other hand, stumbled and skidded, arms out at my sides like I was walking a tightrope.

Halfway across the lake, I slipped and collided into Decker. He grabbed me around the waist. “Watch yourself,” he said, his arm still holding me against his side.

“I want to go back,” I said. I was just close enough to make out the faces of eight kids from school gathered on the opposite shore. The same eight kids I’d known my entire life—for better or worse.

Carson Levine, blond curls spilling out from the bottom of his hat, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Solid?”

Decker dropped his arm and started walking again. “I’m not dead yet,” he called back. He turned around and said, “Your boyfriend’s waiting,” through clenched teeth.

“He’s not my . . . ,” I started, but Decker wasn’t listening.

He kept walking, and I kept not walking, until he was on land and I was alone on the center of Falcon Lake. Carson slapped Decker’s back, and Decker didn’t flick him off. What a double standard. It had been two days since I broke Best Friend Commandment Number One: Thou shalt not hook up with best friend’s other friend on said best friend’s couch. I slowly turned myself in a circle, trying to judge the closest distance to land—backward or forward. I was just barely closer to our destination.

“Come on, D,” Decker called. “We don’t have all day.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mumbled, and walked faster than I should have. And then I slipped. I reached out for Decker even though I knew he was way out of reach and took a hard fall onto my left side. I landed flat on my arm and felt something snap. It wasn’t my bone. It was the ice. No.

My ear was pressed against the surface, so I heard the fracture branch out, slowly at first, then with more speed. Faint crackles turned to snaps and crunches, and then silence. I didn’t move. Maybe it would hold if I just stayed still. I saw Decker’s legs sprinting back toward me. And then the ice gave way.

“Decker!” I screamed. I felt the water, thick and heavy, right before I went under—and then I panicked and panicked and panicked.

I didn’t have the presence of mind to think, Please God, don’t let me die. I wasn’t brave enough to think, I hope Decker stayed back. My only thought, playing on a repetitive loop, was No, no, no, no, no.

First came the pain. Needles piercing my skin, my insides contracting, everything folding in on itself, trying to escape the cold. Next, the noise. Water rushing in and out, and the pain of my eardrums freezing. Pain had a sound; it was a high-pitched static. I sunk quickly, my giant parka weighing me down, and I struggled to orient myself.

Black water churned all around me, but up above, getting farther and farther away, there were footprints—small areas of bright light where Decker and I had left tracks. I struggled to get there. My brain told my legs to kick harder, but they only fluttered in response. I eventually managed to reach the surface again, but I couldn’t find the hole where I had fallen through. I pounded and pounded, but the water felt thick, the consistency of molasses, and the ice was strong, like steel. In my panic I sucked in a giant gulp of water the temperature of ice. My lungs burned. I coughed and gulped and coughed and gulped until the weight in my chest felt like lead and my limbs went still.