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94 The New Camp —Fairbanks, Alaska, December 1903 Some towns glitter in the blue of a January morning, snow as clean as souls on Sunday afternoon. Some sleep in, lazing in the moist heat, warring against all motion while they listen to the water swallowing the sand. In others, hoarse voices calling out and the shuffling of thousands of feet mark the beginning of another busy day. 95 Here, fog curtains the windows, so thick this morning, that as I huff and slide down the icy street, no one inhabits the dull glow of the windowpanes. At one cabin I see a handprint, melted into the ice inside the glass. Five fingers tear the frost’s gray cloth. Through them, I glimpse lamplight and motion, just before the cold rushes to rebuild its gray cocoon. ...

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