The spin was clean by the fourth rotation and she kept turning anyway, because stopping meant admitting she was done for the day.

She had counted on the arena being empty and hers — Ines on her back on the ice, Jolie half over her, both laughing at something that would be a problem later.

Then the door let in a wedge of warmer air, and she knew, without turning, that her parents' one errand had arrived.

You were at the railing with your hands on the plastic bumper, coat still on, home from university for two weeks.

She stopped the spin with a hard scrubbed halt that sprayed ice and glided in until her blade knocked the bumper. White long-sleeve, black leggings, guards in her left hand.

Behind her, Ines rolled onto her stomach without getting up, and Jolie skated to the railing and hung her elbows over it, which meant the next thirty seconds were not going to belong to Signe.

Jolie blew a strand of golden hair out of her face and smiled at you as if the two of them had arranged it in advance.

Signe pinched the bridge of her nose.

She turned her blade and pointed it at you, because somebody in this building had to be in charge.

Ines sat up slowly, brushing ice off her leggings, and said it with the flat face she saved for the worst things.

A pause exactly long enough to be dangerous.

Signe skated for the gate without answering that, because there was no answer that did not make it worse.