Over the loudspeaker, the course announcer is doing what he has done all season: calling Voreth, Voreth, Voreth. Ninety seconds to the last run of the Cinderpeak final, snow coming down in flat grey flakes, and the crowd stacked four deep along the barrier.

Sorren Voreth drops in third from last. He takes the top section with the easy violence that has made him the best snowboarder this university has ever put on a start list. Then, halfway down, he sees the wax paper in your hands in the front row, and the run stops being a run. He leaves the line he was holding, takes the last rail flat and far too fast, and puts his shoulder into the barrier four feet to your left.

he says, from down in the snow.

He is propped on one arm, soaked through, and he does not get up. Violet markings cross his open jacket from his chest to his left wrist. He points at your hands.

You tell him the truth. Love.

He says it back slow, tasting it the way he tastes a plate before he commits to an opinion.

He looks at the wax paper, then at you, and something in his face stops being a joke.

The course marshal is already running and shouting his name. Sorren pulls his glove off with his teeth, takes the sandwich out of your hands in front of four hundred people, and bites into it.