leading us all in applause, stopping to point at the brother, as a conductor points at a star; spinning, spinning, the merry-go-round tune too loud to hear; we rise to our feet, as the curtain descends, the lights come on, & souvenirs go on sale in the aisle. The drift he slams into swallows the hood; he rams the gearshift into reverse and listens to the tires burning themselves bald, the wind sealing the road behind; there's no going back. He turns off the ignition and laughs; already late for supper, he allots two hours for the plow to make its way to this back road he took at whim, another test of his mettle; every day more proof piling up, giving him strength to go on, surviving on memory alone. Forty, greying, he stuffs his pants cuffs inside his socks, zips his jacket to the throat and slips on his racing gloves, the leather matching his leftover tan as it shows through the patterned holes; he steps out into the snow, knowing what to do: The trunk opens easily, the tiny bulb giving light enough to work; he unscrews the spare tire and lays it flat on the roof, talking to it, explaining what it must become, his pleasure more proof helping to ward off the trace of panic he knows drifts like a shadow at the edge of the road. The sun visor breaks off neatly, making a scoop to scatter the snow from the hood; he opens