Page 83 - My FlipBook

SEVEN

“It’s minus thirty-eight degrees today, with wind chill,” Ash
told Greta as she stumbled into the kitchen. Even with the
oven blazing, she felt the invasion of a hundred tiny currents
seeping through the cracks of the basement suite.
Every current stood in solidarity with her, protesting the

start of the new term. She’d radiated misery, and winter had
joined her. I’m here. It pressed in on the house and prickled
the air. Air this cold sought vengeance.
Greta eyed Ash as they stood in the entryway, preparing
to catch the bus. She wound a black woolen scarf around
her neck, up over her mouth, until it touched her nose.
Then she zipped up her parka and pulled the hood over her
head, leaving a narrow slit for her eyes. For one second, she
thought how this would impress Roger—always on her about

dressing for the weather—and then scoffed at herself. Roger
didn’t even care that they were running out of food. The right
choice of outerwear didn’t matter now.

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