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\u201cWho told you to go?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMom and Dad. They said\u2026\u201d A sob choked the sentence, a raw, wet sound that twisted a knife in my gut. \u201cThey said I don\u2019t belong in the house anymore. They said I ruined Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pulled the car onto the shoulder, the hazard lights clicking a rhythmic, amber heartbeat against the snow. \u201cWhere are you, Lily? Are you outside?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m walking. It\u2019s so cold, Evan. I have my bag, but I don\u2019t have a coat. I didn\u2019t grab it fast enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cListen to me,\u201d I commanded, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm. \u201cWalk to the gas station on\u00a0Oak 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.\u201d<\/p>\n
The drive to the gas station was a blur of red lights and white knuckles. I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
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\u2014presents she had bought with her saved allowance. Her face was a ruin of mascara and red, wind-bitten skin.<\/p>\n