There is a boy who lives high on a mountain, almost above the treetops. He sleeps in a small loft in his mother’s cabin, and there’s a tiny square window that sometimes glows blue in Springtime, grey when it’s storming, and white in Winter. His bed is a white goose down pelt that he can pull closer to the window or towards the sharp, scary edge of the loft when he feels lonely for his mother. On the wood-planked floor is a rolled up and rough-looking blue quilt, a few tin toys, a small corn broom to stir around the dust and the spiders, and a chair, painted red. On the chair is an extra pair of blue jeans, a clean shirt, scratchy black wool socks. He wishes he had some books from the library in town, but they haven’t been to town in a week since his mother has been sick and sad in bed. He’s allowed to wander around the cabin and the valley a little, his mother is a free-spirited type and isn’t worried about him doing something silly like picking up a snake or poking a hornet’s nest or going off with a stranger. The cupboard is full of vegetables that she canned earlier that Fall.