Chapter 7
Fremont, Minnesota is melting. All week long, the temperature inches upward until, on Friday afternoon, the weather widget on Dad’s laptop says it’s fifty degrees.
“The dog and I need a walk,” Mom declares when she comes home from work early. She’s a programmer for a software company. Dad is a freelance writer and has, for as long as I can remember, worked from home. Our dog Toby starts spinning in a circle the second Mom pulls the leash from its hook by the kitchen door.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Dad says. “Winter isn’t over yet.”
Mom and Toby leave the house, her chant of “La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” echoing until the door closes. Dad laughs. He heads to the kitchen to brew some more coffee. I love the smell, but it tastes like charred mud unless I add a ton of cream and
