But I don’t think she would have chosen it as a skin color. Edith lay on her back in a drift of snow, some old, some newly fallen, looking as though she was taking a nap—except her eyes were half-open, and so was her mouth. There were snowflakes on her lashes. The snow created blue shadows; I could see my breath. Edith was blue, and I couldn’t see any sign of breath from her. I’d been taking a brisk walk along a two-mile circuit outside of town, something I do whenever I can pry enough time free from my schedule. I live in a rural part of Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where the gently rolling hills are broken up with stands of old-growth trees. Here and there were sturdy old stone houses, most with a trickle of smoke emerging from their chimneys. For the holidays the owners added electric candles in all the windows, their very restrained salute to the season. Over the years I’d settled on a favorite route, one that challenged me but didn’t demand too much effort.
