The bus ride home was stuffy, crowded, and smelled of wet wool. I squeezed to the window, leaning my forehead against the cold glass, but I couldn’t shake the old woman’s words.
Do not touch the snow.
What sort of eccentricity was that? Honestly, just this morning, while hurriedly eating breakfast before heading out, Vernon had grumbled that the driveway absolutely needed to be cleared. He said the drifts were piling up high and the walkways were completely covered. He ordered me to take care of it by evening so the paths would be clear. Otherwise, he claimed, he could not turn the car around.
And here some strange, senile lady whispers weird things about snow. A stupid coincidence. Nothing more.
The house met me with dark, empty windows and a biting cold. Vernon had gone to the depot in the morning to prep the truck for the haul and, in his typical thoughtlessness, had not turned up the heat. I went in, took off my wet coat, and walked across the freezing floor to the kitchen.
Vegetables in the pantry, chicken in the fridge, bread in the box. Every movement was habitual, practiced over the years. The house gradually warmed up, but the chill between Vernon and me never seemed to thaw.
At exactly 6:00 PM, the front door slammed. The cold burst into the house along with Vernon.
He walked in with a heavy tread, shaking snow from his jacket right onto the floor I had just swept, paying no attention to the puddles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered, hard face and cold gray eyes. Fifty-nine years old, but he looked solid and strong despite a quarter of a century behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler.
“Well, is everything ready?” he asked instead of a greeting, not even looking at me, walking straight into the kitchen.
