December 29, 1971

The snow was perfect that day.

Not the icy kind that stabbed through gloves or the slushy kind that melted too fast — the good kind. The kind that packed right in your palm and stuck when you smacked it against something. We were nine. I was wearing two coats because my mom said I’d “catch pneumonia and die dramatically” if I didn’t. Caleb was wearing just one, even though it barely zipped anymore.

We built the fort in the backyard, near the corner fence where the maple tree leaned. It wasn’t big, but it felt like a castle. We stacked snow bricks with an old bucket, carved out a little doorway, and used sticks for flagpoles. Caleb named it Star Fortress because he said forts should have names like ships or heroes.

We were kings in that snow pile. Cold, red-nosed, and invincible.

And we were serious about it. Every wall was measured in boot-lengths. Every snow brick was inspected for cracks. Caleb dragged over an old plastic sled to help haul snow, and I snuck two soup spoons from the kitchen so we could sculpt the inside walls. We took turns shoveling with a dustpan, building layer after layer, both of us soaked through and pink-cheeked, but determined.

“Bigger,” Caleb said at one point, standing back with his hands on his hips. “We need it big enough to lie down in. Just in case we need to sleep here.”

“Sleep?” I raised an eyebrow. “You planning on moving in?”

He grinned at me, a smudge of snow stuck in his hair. “You never know. Could be an emergency.”

So we built it bigger.

I held the walls steady while he packed snow into the bucket. He shaped the roof while I crouched inside, smoothing the floor. Our gloves got stiff and our fingers went numb, but neither of us wanted to stop.

Every now and then, Caleb would hum — a quiet, tuneless sound, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And once, without thinking, he pressed his forehead to mine when we both ducked into the fort to check if it was finished.

“Good,” he said, breath fogging the air between us. “We did good.”

And we had.

The fort wasn’t much. Just snow and sticks and two boys who didn’t know how to say what they needed — so they built it instead.

“I think it needs a lookout hole,” he said, shoving his glove into the wall like a drill.

“For what?”

“In case of surprise snowball attacks. Obviously.”

“Who’s attacking us?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Spies. Yeti. Your neighbor’s cat.”

I laughed. He grinned like he’d won something.

He always did that — said just enough to make me laugh, just enough to steer us away from anything heavier. Like if we stayed in that silly space long enough, nothing real could touch us.

When he crouched down to pat the inside wall, I saw it — a dark smear just above his ankle, where his pant leg had ridden up. Another one on his hand when he pulled his glove off to blow warm air into it. Bruises that looked older than yesterday. Bruises that didn’t come from snow.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He followed my eyes. “Oh—yeah. I just… fell. While sledding.”

His answer was too fast. Too easy.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded. That’s how we handled things back then. With nods and shrugs and pretending we didn’t notice the parts that didn’t feel right.

But I stayed closer to him after that. Scooted nearer in the snow, handed him the bucket every time without making him ask, helped pack the last wall so he wouldn’t have to keep crouching. We didn’t talk about it. We just kept building. Bricks, flagpoles, snow packed tight like armor.

He added another stick to the roof. Called it the “signal mast.” Said it’d glow if there was danger. I said that didn’t make any sense.

“Doesn’t have to,” he replied. “It’s ours.”

And that was enough.

We sat inside the fort, pressed shoulder to shoulder, the walls around us just high enough to make it feel like we’d disappeared from the world. Our breath puffed into little clouds, and Caleb drew shapes in the snow between us with a stick — circles, stars, squiggles.

“You can live here forever if you want,” I said suddenly.

I didn’t mean it as a joke. Not really.

Caleb paused. Looked at me. His eyes were the clearest kind of blue — the kind snow turned into when the sun hit just right.

“I might,” he said.

Just that.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was playing pretend or making a plan.

He went back to drawing in the snow, but slower this time. His hand moved like it hurt. I noticed the purpling bruise on his wrist again, half-hidden by his coat sleeve. He told me it was from sledding earlier, said he hit a tree too hard. I wanted to believe him. So I did.

I didn’t ask what he meant.

Didn’t ask why his eyes looked tired even though we were nine and nothing was supposed to be heavy yet.

I just nodded again and started building the roof.

And he helped me finish it, quietly, like the fort was the only safe place left in the world.

Like maybe it really could be ours.

If I’d known then—really known—what was waiting for him when he went home each night, maybe I would’ve asked.

Maybe I would’ve done something.

Maybe I could’ve saved him sooner.