Page 22 - My FlipBook

L IS A J. L A W R E N C E

Their neighbor had already parked his Volvo across the
street, a skiff of snow collecting on the windshield. He was
nowhere to be seen. Greta fumbled for the key, her fingers
slow and stiff. The air inside the basement suite was a relief
for just a second, then registered as cold enough to leave her
coat on. In the kitchen she reached for the box of matches in
the cupboard above the stove. Pulling open the oven door, she
turned on the gas and held the match close. Her hand jerked

away as the flame ignited. She secretly feared a fireball that
would take off her eyebrows. It was Ash who thought of using
the oven as a heat source when the furnace still hadn’t kicked
in by October and the landlord upstairs never answered when
they knocked. The landlord controlled the heat for the base-
ment suite as well, which, Patty announced loudly—on a
daily basis—was illegal. ADVANCE READING COPY

Greta dragged a kitchen chair across the pocked hard-
wood, parking it in front of the open oven door. The heat
teased—welcoming in the front while the cold attacked from
every other angle. She stood up to get a blanket.
At the mouth of the hallway, Greta stopped. A light under
her dad and Patty’s door. Someone was home? Maybe it had
been left on by accident. The sun had dropped low, and the
strip of light from the bedroom glowed in the dusky hall. Patty
was almost never there when they got home from school,

and Roger wouldn’t be home from his daily run between
Edmonton and Calgary until after six o’clock.
Greta leaned against the door, listening. Nothing. As she
turned the knob in her hand, she heard a clink from inside,

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