The Ice Shelf Crack

Declan had skied this frozen lake crossing every winter for the past four years, and it had always held without complaint. This year, though, the ice had been forming late, and he knew that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

"It sounded different that time," Saoirse said, stopping mid-stride. A low groan had rolled out from somewhere beneath them, more felt than heard.

"Probably just the ice settling," Declan said, though he slowed his pace anyway. "It does that when the temperature drops fast."

They skied on, spaced ten meters apart the way they always did on lake ice, in case one of them broke through. It was a rule Declan had never needed before.

The second crack came louder, and this time a thin dark line appeared, spreading from a point just behind Saoirse's skis.

"Declan!"

"Don't stop — glide, don't push off hard!" he called, remembering that sudden weight on one spot was worse than steady motion. "Head for the shore, straight line, go!"

Saoirse skied faster, though every instinct told her to run, which would have been the worst thing she could do on cracking ice. The line kept pace with her, branching once, then twice.

Declan angled toward the same shore from a slightly different line, watching the ice ahead of his own skis rather than behind him. If he had watched Saoirse instead, he might have skied straight into a weak spot himself.

They reached the rocky shoreline within seconds of each other, scrambling up onto solid ground and collapsing against a boulder, breathing hard.

"That crack was following me," Saoirse said, still shaking.

"It wasn't following you. We're just heavier than the ice wanted to carry today," Declan said. "We should've turned back the moment we heard the first sound."

"Next time we will," Saoirse said. "Assuming there's a next time."

"There will be," Declan said. "Just not on this lake, not until it's had another month of real cold."

They shouldered their packs and walked the long way home, along the shoreline instead of across it.