Thin Layers (a short story written for this site)
The hose had frozen again.
Theo stood in the dark backyard, banging the nozzle against his boot while the floodlight buzzed above him. Minus eighteen, the radio had said. Perfect rink weather. His fingers had stopped feeling like fingers twenty minutes ago.
Last winter, Nadia had done the cold part. She had stood out here every night in her old green parka, spraying the ice in slow, even sweeps, while Theo complained from the back step.
"Just dump a whole bucket," he'd said. "It'll be done in one night."
"Thin layers," she said, without turning around. "Rush it and it cracks."
"You sound like Dad."
"Someone has to."
Now the green parka hung on the hook by the door, and Nadia was far away in Thunder Bay, starting her first real job. The rink was patchy. Last night Theo had dumped three buckets on the low corner, and this morning a crack ran across it like a lightning bolt.
The hose finally coughed. Water sputtered, then flowed. Theo raised it to blast the corner, and his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled off one mitt with his teeth.
Dad says you're flooding tonight, Nadia had written. How's the ice?
Theo looked at the crack. He typed Fine, then deleted it.
Cracked, he wrote. I rushed it.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
Thin layers, she wrote. You've got all winter.
Theo put his mitt back on. He turned the nozzle to a fine spray and swept it slowly across the ice, back and forth, the way she used to, while the floodlight buzzed and the water spread thin and silver and began, quietly, to freeze.