It was freezing. It had to be close to zero.
All around him, Henry knew everyone dreamed of a white Christmas. They were certainly getting their wish, here in this small town in western Pennsylvania. The snow had started in the early afternoon, after a morning of ominous-looking dark gray clouds and the smell of precipitation in the air as some kind of nasty omen. Henry looked up at those winter skies with dread. White Christmases were all well and good for those who could look out on them from warm houses, with flames flickering in a fireplace, with cups of eggnog dusted with nutmeg, and with the sound of Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” or Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in the background.
If Henry was hearing anything holiday-related in his own head
