Tobin liked the bridge best in the early morning, when the market was still waking up. He stood beneath the long snowbridge with his brass key ring tapping softly at his belt, watching carts, boots, and sleds take turns across the slick boards. His job was to keep the crossing calm and steady, and he was doing it the proper way: one at a time, slow voices, careful steps.
Then a warm glow slipped past his eye.
A market lantern—one of the round kind that hung outside the stalls to keep hands from stiffening in the cold—had broken loose in the wind. It rolled, bumped, and bobbed right off the path, then disappeared under the bridge arch. Tobin hurried after it just enough to see what it had done. Under the snowy curve, the lantern sat glowing orange on the packed snow, and tiny drifts were already puffing up around it where melting water dripped and the wind pushed the slush into little ridges.
Tobin frowned. The crossing above was still busy. A sled was waiting at one end. Two boots stamped near the middle. Another cart was coming from the far side.
The lantern was no longer out in the open market lane where everyone could see it. It was under the bridge now, warming the snow right where the packed path needed to stay firm. Tobin could stay at his post and keep the line moving, or he could leave the crossing and try to reach the lantern before the snow turned soft under everyone’s feet.
What happens next?
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