Standing high in the icebox. Up in the rafters, on plastic wood textured after a fallen sequoia. Watching people make circles, make scratches, make breath clouds. Clockwise conversations on a Friday night, replaying office drama and schoolyard trauma, overlapping ruts, the same offences crisscross-carving pirouettes in the pristine ice. A tracing of simple human stories, freshly cut, laid bare for anyone to read, until the Zamboni scrapes it away with a flood of forgiveness and absolution.