The December air was sharp and clean, carrying the faint, sweet smell of woodsmoke from the chimneys of Jackson. The town's Christmas lights—old strings of glass bulbs, carefully preserved—glowed against the snow-covered rooftops, casting everything in a soft, warm haze. From the Tipsy Bison, muffled music and laughter spilled out into the night, so unlike the silence that hung low over the porch you now found yourself climbing.