Snow, blinding and white. Cold air, shattered glass. Peter’s hand still warm in his, still holding on tight. The radio fading as the sirens wail closer. Footsteps crunching through snow, branches snapping away, angry shouts. Bright lights shining into the car, glaring off the snow as it falls, tiny sparkles like stars swirling around them. Someone banging on the car, calling out their names, the knocking filling Jory’s head like a white noise, throbbing like his heart, knock knock knock…
Jory blinks wearily, but the knocking persists, a steady pounding on the door. He pushes himself up from the living room sofa—when did he come down here? He doesn’t remember leaving his bed, and he can’t imagine why the sunlight shines so low across the floor now, a late afternoon orange glow that suggest
