Tobin was already halfway up the fish stall steps when the roof gave a tired little groan above him. The stall sat at the edge of Larkspur Snowbridge Market, where the wooden walkways dipped toward the pale river and the morning bells had not yet rung. Tobin, wrapped in his thick blue scarf and jingling brass key ring, put one broad boot on the top step and looked up.
The fish stall roof was fur-lined to keep the catch cold, but overnight snow had settled on it in a heavy white hump. One side sagged low, as if the whole roof had taken a deep breath and forgotten how to let it out. Tobin reached up and pushed with both gloved hands. The snow did not budge. It only held its weight and waited.
He tried a careful shake. A little powder slid down at once, sifting off the edge and drifting onto the path below. Tobin stopped fast. The market lanes were still empty now, but soon shoppers would come with baskets and boots and sleepy faces. He could not clear the roof if every shake dropped more snow where people would walk.
Down below, the first trader’s door opened. A milk pail clinked. Someone would notice the stall was still closed soon, and then the waiting would spread. Tobin stared at the sagging roof, then at the snowy walkway, and felt the problem pull in two directions at once: lift the snow, or keep the path safe.
He heard quick steps on the boards behind him and turned just as Mira, in her red patched coat and sideways wool cap, pointed at the powder on the path. “That’s not just on the roof anymore,” she said. “It’s ready to fall.”
What happens next?
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