Arthur stripped the wet jacket off. The boy was wearing thin pajamas underneath. Pajamas. In a blizzard.

He grabbed the wool blanket from his armchair and wrapped the child like a cocoon. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed the rotary phone on the wall—the only thing that worked when the power flickered—and dialed 911.

Click. Buzz. Silence.

“Dead,” Arthur hissed, slamming the receiver down. The lines were down. They were miles from town. No ambulance was coming tonight.

He returned to the fire. The boy hadn’t moved. Arthur sat on the floor, pulling the small, frozen body against his chest, sharing his own body heat. He rocked him, staring into the flames, whispering prayers he thought he’d forgotten.

“Come on. Come on, fight it.”