A man from the government stood in the doorway of Ace Winslow's one-room shack. He had arrived on a silver snowmobile and wore a silver helmet and silver zip-up snowsuit that was peculiar to the area. After introducing himself, he stood silent for a few moments, awaiting conversation that was not forthcoming, then said: "We'll be building you a new house in the spring." He explained that Ace need not live in "this place" any longer, that the government had initiated programs to ensure that the people in Cutland Junction lived better lives. Ace had never seen the man before. He nodded regardless and grinned and asked the man in for a mug of tea, but the man said he was busy and had better get going. Many more stops to make before the day was out.

"On government land over there," the man had indicated, pointing his silver mitt toward the white featureless expanse of barrens so that Ace had no idea how far. The snow went on for a vast stretch of distance, leading to the faraway shadow of Coombs Hill and its deep woods where Ace had worked the trapline for over fifty years. "Here's some papers explaining the program." The man stuck his mitt under his arm and yanked out his hand. Ace was surprised at how pink and smooth the hand was. He watched it as the man pulled out a thick booklet from his deep zip-up pocket. "If you have any questions," said the man, passing the booklet to Ace, "I'll be back in a few weeks." The man then looked over his shoulder and all around as though wondering what the house might be doing plunked down there in the middle of nothing but white.

Ace grinned some more and nodded. He weighed the booklet in his hand, marvelling at how thick and full of words it was. He then watched the man turn to face the snow that had begun falling an hour ago. "It's getting worse," said the man from the government. He fitted on his helmet and fastened the strap beneath his chin.

Ace winked in sturdy agreement and clutched the booklet with his brown leathery fingers. The cover was shiny and featured a drawing of a brand new house with a big leafy green tree to either side of it. The government man turned and climbed on his snowmobile, tugged the ignition cord and gave a wave before heading off across the white barrens toward the frozen surface of Keels Lake.

Ace could see a few dry bush twigs poked up through the snow and cracked off in the path of the snowmobile. He shut his door and went over to the pot-bellied stove. Lifting the damper off the front burner, he admired the pure redness of the fire roaring within, then stuffed the booklet into the perfect circle. He nodded and grinned, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as he jabbed at the paper with the fire iron. "A fine heat," he assured himself, feeling the hot surge so full against his face that he leaned slightly away and slid the heavy damper back over to seal the hole.

In the spring, the workers came. Ace watched them survey the land about sixty feet across the barrens where they were driving stakes and measuring the spaces between one man and the other. What they were doing required great precision. A small shift to the left and back. A tiny shift to the right and forward.

The men wore spring clothes and this pleased Ace to see that another season was coming. If he were a younger man, he'd be off in the woods, cutting and hauling wood to sell around Cutland Junction, down Shearstown Line and in Bareneed. From his doorway, he watched the workers stretch long runs of tape from one point to another, then mark the driven stakes with bits of red ribbon that flapped lightly in the breeze. Fine work, Ace told himself. Work like that was hard to come by. He considered those stakes, imagining himself yanking their sharp points out of the ground and carrying them back to his shack. They were just the right size for burning.