Torvald trudged homewards across the frozen fjord, as he often had during the past seventy winters, his safety plank in tow. Two metres long with a rope attached to one end, it trailed behind him. He could use it to bridge holes in the ice, or to support his weight while he climbed back up, should he happen to fall through.

He had stayed too long at his neighbour's; the day had long since passed into darkness. Dinner was succeeded by coffee, which was supplanted by brandy. Torvald related his visit to an Oslo hospital the previous week:

"Cancer, would you believe it? Cancer of the bowel, and it's too far gone to do anything about it." He had demanded that the hospital allow him to return home. He had lived in the fjord all his life, he would die there, too, not in some barren hospital room.

The two neighbours drowned their sorrows in the best part of a whole bottle that Sunday evening. One man was losing his friend; the other was losing his life. Their companionship had no future. The brandy helped them forget that, but it brought them together in the past, as they laughed and cried over old, common memories. When Torvald eventually stood up to leave, he was unsteady on his feet, but wouldn't hear of staying the night at his friend's:

"Away is good, but home is best," he said as he booted up for the trek home.

Torvald's mind cleared somewhat, as he picked his way across the sea ice that had allowed the neighbours to see so much of each other this winter. Spring came surprisingly quickly at this time of the year, he thought. He had found the ice solid on the way to dinner. Now, it was moving, there could be no doubt, which meant it was breaking up. He felt it heave and toss in variously-sized flakes as he stepped from one to the other. He smiled to himself. An ill-timed jump, or the wrong choice of flake, and in he would go. His plank had saved him countless times before. He wondered if he would be able to pull himself out, at his age and in his condition.

Before he had finished wondering, he was flailing breathlessly in the icy water. The flake he had stepped onto had broken in two, neither  bit able to bear his weight. He resisted the urge to panic; he still had hold of the rope. He pulled on it until he could see the end of his plank. Positioning it so that each end rested on a large flake, he used it to lift himself up in the water, his arms supporting his weight as he regained his breath.

Having satisfied himself that he would be able to get out, Torvald lowered himself back into the freezing water and slipped under the ice, wondering how long it would be before someone found him.