Photo by Bruce Bolin


                                                                              

            The road dipped downward until it was barely above the frozen lake. The ice was like a quilt stitched together of peach, periwinkle, and lime patches. I parked again and got out of the car. Some of the photos I took showed the lake as if no human had ever touched it, but when I aimed the camera in another direction, I captured images of ice fishing huts dotted over the frozen bay. Smoke swirled from the chimney of one. An ATV was parked beside it.

            Boom!

            I dove to the ground beside the driver's door. Had the murderer followed me out of the village to take potshots at me? 
           The noise rocketed out onto the lake, too prolonged for a gunshot. The thick lake ice must have developed a sudden, and very long, crack.