“Who told you to go?”

“Mom and Dad. They said…” A sob choked the sentence, a raw, wet sound that twisted a knife in my gut. “They said I don’t belong in the house anymore. They said I ruined Christmas.”

I pulled the car onto the shoulder, the hazard lights clicking a rhythmic, amber heartbeat against the snow. “Where are you, Lily? Are you outside?”

“I’m walking. It’s so cold, Evan. I have my bag, but I don’t have a coat. I didn’t grab it fast enough.”

My blood, usually a slow, steady current, flash-froze in my veins. It was eleven degrees below zero. The wind chill was lethal. My sister was eleven years old.

“Listen to me,” I commanded, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm. “Walk to the gas station on Oak and 5th. The one with the blue sign. Go inside. Do not wait outside. Stay by the clerk. I am coming. Do not hang up.”

The drive to the gas station was a blur of red lights and white knuckles. I didn’t feel anger yet. Anger is a hot emotion; what I felt was a cold, calculating assessment of survival. I was running the numbers on hypothermia and frostbite.

When I pulled into the station, I saw her. She was sitting on a crate of soda bottles near the counter, her small frame shuddering. She was clutching a plastic shopping bag filled with clumsily wrapped gifts—presents she had bought with her saved allowance. Her face was a ruin of mascara and red, wind-bitten skin.