The roads are closing again for the night and my aunt sighs into her tea. Another snowstorm is coming. The boats are tied down to the quay in a spiderweb of ropes. I’m restless to get out and feel as though it somehow relates to me. A bit of imagination is welcomed. My friend calls me in a similar state, and we are young. There’s a yellow cabin on the mountain between us and the next village. We think of the storm. We think of our skin. A chill comes and leaves us brave. Roads have disappeared. Cars are covered. The ice on the large lake has begun to melt. It’s March. I meet her in the garage where she stands by the snowmobile looking like a masked driver in a Mad Max sequel. Our helmets are too big, and the vehicle is not made for speed or weather. We head out quietly. The wind is picking up, and powdered snow is twirling along the road in micro tornadoes. Nothing bad happens, I tell myself. We drive quickly in near whiteout. The lake proves unstable, and the hard cover begins to crack behind us. Nothing bad happens. I tap her shoulder and when she doesn’t notice, I slam my gloved palm into her back. Nothing bad happens. She hits the gas and maxes the speed of the vehicle in a panic. Nothing bad happens. I grip her waist tighter and close my eyes. There’s a stillness in the spectacle and I realise, this is who we are – this is it. It’s a fire from within. It’s defiance against the earth. It’s a morning when you discover the sunrise and decide to turn your back. It’s Hamlet’s soliloquy. It’s grapefruit juice instead of orange. It’s a real lie, not a white. It’s the sarcasm in an exhale. It’s how to save your sanity in the consequences. We pass the lake with a sharp thump. She taps my knee and points to the yellow cabin in the distance.