An Ice Mountain That Is Neither

There’s an ice mountain to the north that is neither made of ice nor a mountain, but rather an ancient tower, made of steel and arrogance. 

Georgia thinks there must be power inside it, engines strong enough to burn away the cold and bring back summer.

“That’s crazy,” I say, following in her snowy footprints regardless. “If the Hathaways had such engines, why didn’t they use them?”

She looks at me with pity. “It happened too soon, of course,” she says, and turns back towards the tower. She huffs a misty, determined breath, and sets off again.

I stand a moment, unsure, kicking at the crusted snow, baring the layer of plastic beneath.