Mar/Apr 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 2 |

Snow Line

1 We knew our neighbor would come back. His family’s summer cabin was glorious—a chocolate box with blue icing trim, a porch swing outside, and inside, a cozy, carpeted living area and sleeping room, shelves with his mother’s knick-knacks from Iowa and Holland. The pump organ was lined with old music, black-and-white family photographs. The cabin was built into the side of the hill, so it was higher than ours but within the same aspen grove and just across the dirt road. Early that summer, the neighbor had moved from the island of Saint Thomas to our Colorado ghost town, where his family had kept a cabin for almost a century. He planned on dwelling year-round in these mountains. We didn’t believe him—his place was not winterized—until we saw him stealing logs from our woodpile. A woman came to live with him once he had a stack, and he had been in the cabin with her one night—he was calling her his girlfriend. They were drunk, fighting, and he hit her. She phoned the p

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Elizabeth Brinsfield
Elizabeth Brinsfield grew up in New Jersey, attended Bowdoin College and the University of Montana, and lives in Iowa. Her work has appeared in DIAGRAM, Tupelo Quarterly, CutBank, Word Riot, and Flash Fiction Net.

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