“Then why,” Fern asked, “does my grandmother in the southern desert call Spring ‘the season of dust’? And why does my uncle on the northern coast call Spring ‘the season of returning fog’?”

Elias smiled, turned to page 184, and read his definition aloud. His voice was clear as a bell.

“That’s not dormancy,” Fern said. “That’s waiting. And waiting is its own kind of work.”

Fern sat on his floor. “In your book, does Spring start on the same day everywhere?”

One afternoon, a girl named Fern knocked on his door. She was the woodcutter’s daughter, with dirt on her knees and a live moth cupped in her hands.

Finally, Fern led him to the top of a hill. The sun was setting, huge and orange.

“Between the Earth and the Sun. Between the squirrel and the acorn. Between the old woman’s aching knee and the coming rain. Your book says Winter is ‘dormancy and lowest temperatures.’ But look.” She pointed to the village below. Chimneys were smoking. Children were knitting scarves for newborn lambs. A man was sharpening his axe by lantern light.