Thin Ice

The bay froze a week ago, and straight across to the Spit is twenty minutes instead of an hour round the shore. Halfway over, the ice turns from white to grey, and Alice sees it first. The others are two hundred metres from land and have no intention of stopping.

The bay froze a week ago, and the dare starts by the jetty on its own: who crosses to the Spit first. Alice goes along with everyone, sliding and laughing — for the first hundred metres the ice booms cheerfully underfoot. Halfway across the colour changes: instead of white with frozen bubbles the ice runs grey, almost black, with water showing through in a thin dark thread. Alice notices it first, points at the grey band and names the cause — the current from the stream. Nobody slows: two hundred metres to the Spit and the shore is already in sight. So Alice stops and says it loudly: no further, we go back along our own tracks. The others turn round — and walk on without her. Right at the band Zhenya's leg goes through, four of them haul him out, and everyone sees black water in the hole. They walk back in silence, and on the shore the anger finds someone to blame.