His heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn’t a raccoon. It wasn’t a dog.

It was a bundle. A cheap, blue nylon parka, half-buried in a snowdrift on his welcome mat. And sticking out of the parka was a small hand, the skin turning a terrifying shade of marble-white.

“Holy mother of…” Arthur dropped the poker. He fell to his knees, ignoring the agony in his joints, and scooped the bundle up. It was light—terrifyingly light.

It was a boy. No older than six.

Arthur rushed him inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. The silence of the house returned, but the atmosphere had shattered. He laid the child on the rug in front of the roaring fire. The boy’s lips were blue. His eyelashes were frozen together with ice. He was missing a shoe.

“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” Arthur rubbed the boy’s arms vigorously, panic rising in his throat like bile. “Wake up, son. Don’t you do this on my watch.”