Corey was standing a few feet from the sled run when she spoke — one hand on her hip, her other mittened hand trying to wisp away the strands of hair run renegade from under her cap.

“Are you the announcer, or something?”

She was 8. She often cut to the heart of matters with me, her nattering uncle — curt queries snapping her into adult demeanor, leaving me bemused and suddenly self-conscious.

“I’m just trying to make this more exciting, like we did when I was a kid.”

Corey only half-listened and then bellyflopped onto her plastic glider, tucking the tow rope under her purple...