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four-wheel drive was sure-footed enough to keep him in his lane if he went slowly and braked early into slow-motion turns.
    All three floors of the old Burnside home were lit. Wylie saw maybe a dozen parked cars under the spacious, snow-crowned porte cochere—a fifty-fifty blend of swank SUVs, then the beaters affordable for young skiers and boarders. He heard music and voices and knocked on the front door, and a moment later it opened. A man towered over tall Wylie, who came to about the bottom of the guy’s beard. “Wylie, man.”
    â€œCroft. You look bigger.”
    â€œI only stopped growing a year ago.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œIt was a gland thing. But I can still fit in my truck.”
    â€œRobert’s here, right?”
    â€œCome on in. You gotta meet Helixon. And, you know, get his permission to be here.”
    From the dark entryway, Wylie was led into a great room, moodily lit, that was open all the way to the ceiling of the second floor. The vast interior looked to be hardwoods, warmly finished. Above, the second-story rooms sat behind the railed quadrangle of the atrium, like those of an old hotel. A wide stairway led to the second story, then swept up and over and out of Wylie’s sight. Suspended from above was a behemoth chandelier of elk antlers and small flickering lights, graceful and complex. A faint veil of smoke hung within, cannabis and tobacco. Wylie heard music and saw movement in the second-floor shadows. Three young women came pounding down the burnished plank stairs, laughing and trying to balance drinks. A fourth, scantily clad but wearing a red elf’s cap, slid down the banister on her butt. From somewhere above came a shriek, delighted and somewhat wicked.
    â€œThird floor’s kind of like forbidden,” said Croft.
    â€œThat’s probably good.”
    â€œHelixon’s got more money than the Facebook guy and Bono put together.”
    â€œHow is that possible?”
    â€œHe created this app that sees the future. I’m not exactly sure how it works. He also invented the Imagery Beast for training skiers and boarders. It’s on the second floor, but only Helixon can open the door. This place is quiet tonight, but it’ll be packed this weekend for the Mammoth Cup. Come on—that’s Helixon over there, the one what looks like lightning struck him.”
    Bart Helixon looked to be in his early twenties, short and wiry, with a head of pure white hair. His mustache and Vandyke were similarly bleached, and it was only his unwrinkled skin that gave away his youth. He wore a window, positioned on its clear eyeglass frame like a tiny rearview mirror, his blue eyes studying Wylie from behind the chandelier flickers on the lens. Wylie shook his hand. “There’s power in you,” Helixon said.
    â€œStandard-issue.”
    â€œNo, nothing standard in there.” Helixon broke the shake and wiped his hand on his lounge pants.
    Wylie saw a phalanx of young men and women moving from the kitchen, bearing drinks and plates stacked high with food. With them came Wylie’s half brother Robert Carson, smiling and clean-shaven and somehow bemused, which has exactly how Wylie remembered him. Wylie hadn’t seen him in five years, but rarely had more than a week gone by without calls and texts when possible, letters and postcards when not. Robert was three years older than Wylie, equally tall but lighter. He had an athlete’s body, the blue eyes and blond hair of the Carson clan.
    Wylie and Robert hugged forcefully, measuring each other’s strength and balance as they had been doing their whole lives. Wylie was startled by the great affection welling up in him now. It was so good to know for certain that not all of his heart was scattered throughout the Middle East and the cold peaks of Eurasia or the Andes, that a big part of it was still here in Mammoth Lakes. He hugged Robert again, then broke away and smiled as the