Stokeland. It sits at a fork between two roads, one a thick, commercial highway bedeviled by ice for ninety percent of the year; the other a stripped, frozen weave of a road, impassable for ten months out of twelve and huddled beneath wedges of brilliant white snow. It is a wonder that Stokeland has any inhabitants at all; but it does, over a hundred souls. Angie, barmaid, too fond of the drink she serves. Gerry, the ancient trapper who has spent...