The thermometer on the back porch of Arthur Sterling’s farmhouse read five degrees below zero, and the mercury was still dropping. It was Christmas Eve in Northwood, Maine, but for Arthur, it was just another Tuesday night to survive. At seventy-two, with knees that clicked like rusty hinges and a heart that had been slowly hardening since his wife, Martha, passed five years ago, Arthur had no use for holidays.
The “Storm of the Century,” the weathermen called it. For once, they weren’t lying. The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the sash windows of the old Victorian house that felt too big for one man.
Arthur poured himself a glass of bourbon, neat, and moved to close the heavy velvet drapes. He wanted to shut out the whiteout conditions, shut out the town of Northwood, and shut out the memories of Christmases past.
Thump.
