I make it through the wood. And a little bit into the field. I see Larry�s jeep far ahead, a small speck of black against white and blue. Soon it�ll disappear. He�s still going on full speed. Maybe he�s afraid I�ll be coming after him. Maybe he�s not sure he didn�t leave me enough fuel.

 

About four miles into the field, my engine starts coughing. I look at the meter and stop the car. It�s no good. I�d better use what is left for heating.

 

It begins to snow again. I spent more time peering at the remains of the City than I thought, and the sky has become clouded. Not too much overcast yet� but I still think there�ll be a storm. Again. A new storm every day� Maybe that�s how it is going to be. Maybe in a few years we�ll have to survive in constant storms and think back to the days of sun and frost with nostalgic yearning. A few years ago I�d say a man couldn�t survive if he couldn�t even get out of the house. But now I know that some people survive always. No matter what, no matter how, no matter at whose expense.

 

Maybe I�m not a survivor type.

 

I make sure both doors are shut and turn on the heating. At least a couple hours of comfort. Someone has said that people who know they�ll die soon feel life better. Maybe he had a point.

 

There�s still some food left in the back seat. I wonder why Larry didn�t take it, too� maybe he just forgot. I pull the bag and one of the old newspapers to the front seat and spend the next fifteen minutes having lunch and reading � with rather much interest � an old report about some divorce case. I don�t remember the names. They newspaper says the guy was an actor � let it be so. His wife wanted ten million bucks and a house in Malibu. I snicker a bit when I read it and wonder if she got it. The newspaper is eight years old; she didn�t have much time to enjoy the beaches even if she did.

 

When the food is over, I take some more newspapers and read on. Old stories, old sensations. Somebody�s old joys and pains. Dirty secrets, scandalous press releases, Oscar nominations, Grammy ceremonies� Once upon a long ago it was really important. And maybe it was good. When people can think of such things as important, that means their own life is more or less okay. That means they do live. They don�t have to survive.

 

I keep reading, because I don�t want to listen to the wind that becomes stronger and wails louder with every minute. I keep reading, because I don�t want to see the light fading fast. I keep reading, because I don�t want to see the snow start dancing, flying along the earth instead of falling down.

 

I keep reading because I don�t want to acknowledge the storm�s coming.

 

Maybe, in the end, I�m of the lower species of human. Of those that have more animal than divine in them. They say that deathwish is only possible on the higher stages of evolution and mind development. I�ve always thought I have a deathwish. Now I know I don�t. Because I don�t want to admit I�ll be dead in a few hours. The storm is coming, and I don�t want to see it, because it means I�ll have to die. And so I�ll read, again and again, old news, interviews with the stars I don�t remember, claims of political parties that don�t have a state to rule anymore, reviews of albums by bands that don�t even exist. I will read, because I don�t want to look out.

 

Even though I don�t doubt that in a few hours, when I get really desperate, I�ll get out and try to gnaw my way back home right through the snow.

 

The animal in me will.

 

It�s homo sapiens who has learned to give up. Animals always die trying.

 

I read. Madonna�s life story. A negative review of Chuck Palahniuk�s latest book. An article on the so-far-unheard-of dangers of circumcision. Special report on our troops in Iraq. I don�t stop reading when the heating dies. I only stop when the light starts to fail. The batteries are going out. And the storm has begun, which means there won�t be much light outside, even though it�s day�

 

I look up from the page, covered with fine print.

 

No.

 

It�s not because of the storm.

 

It�s because someone is standing right outside my car window.

 

I turn to stone, almost literally, every tendon in my body hardened and so tensed it hurts. Behind the glass, I see the black coat. The hand, half-hidden in the pocket. All I see of it is the wrist and the thumb. There�s a watch around this wrist. Old-fashioned mechanical watch.

 

I remember tightening the minute-hand screw in it. It had gone lose and was lagging behind�

 

�No,� I whisper. �No, no, no, no.�

 

The hand slides out of the pocket. Reaches out and touches the glass. Flattens itself against it, right in front of my eyes. I can see every lifeline in its palm. And then the man behind the glass bends down and looks into my window.

 

It�s him alright. The way I remember him. Black coat, tousled hair, grey eyes, small wrinkles around their corners � crow�s feet� he loved to laugh, my Ritchey.

 

He is smiling.

 

Then his mouth moves, and I don�t hear a thing over the storm, but I see the words he�s mouthing.

 

I found you, Dean.

 

His eyes are two plates of grey ice.

 

�No,� I say soberly and shake my head. �No. It�s not you.�

 

His smile fades. And small silvery lines start running from the spot where his hand is touching the glass, twisting, running into each other, covering the glass with complicated, wondrous ornament.

 

Frostwork.

 

I scream. I scream, and pull my gun out, and shoot at the figure I still can see behind the glass, shoot once, twice, thrice� I only stop pulling the trigger when I realize that I hear dry empty clicks instead of blasts. I�ve wasted my whole clip. Six bullets.

 

I have no window anymore. The wind, stinging cold, biting, has broken into my car and is now throwing snow all over me.

 

Outside, there�s nothing. Nothing and no-one.

 

I let the gun slip out of my fingers and watch blankly as the wind tears through the old papers, playing with them, lifting them up and blowing them away into the white. It doesn�t matter now. I could try and hide from the storm while my car was still a shelter. Now it�s not.

 

I push the �unfold� button and crawl over to the back seat. It�s a little warmer there. Just a tad. But it�s still cold. I feel the cold creep under my parka. Into my gloves. Feel it raise hackles on the back of my neck. Soon it will creep into me, too. And then I�ll stop worrying.

 

I crouch in the back sit, pulling my knees to my chest, putting my arms around them. And I think of summer. Of large sandy beaches, as vast and endless as the snow field around me. Of lucid blue water, sparkling in the sun. Of breeze. Of big waves that roll gently under your feet as you�re standing on the surfboard. Of heat. Of the California that used to be.

 

And it does make me warm. At least I don�t feel the cold so much anymore. It even feels kind of� cozy. A feeling I could get used to. So easy, so quiet. Peaceful. If I sit like this a bit longer, maybe, I could even fall asleep�

 

The ever-life-thirsty animal inside me growls.

 

My grandpa says if you go to sleep in the snow, you�ll never wake up.

 

Wake up, Dean, you loser.

 

I jerk my head up. God, I�m freezing. It�s the cold, it�s trying to win me over. To kill me right where I sit, without any fight. There�s a long clever word for it, one of those Theo wrote into his crossword puzzles.

 

Hypothermia.

 

Fuck that.

 

I kick the door open and jump out of the car. If there�s nothing better to do, I�d rather try to walk right home.

 

It�ll be much more fun.

 

And everything is so white.

 

White snow, white sky, white wind. White cold. White noise in my ears. I walk. If I can walk, then I�m walking along the road, right? The wind is playing with me. Just a second ago it was right in my face, and now it�s pushing me in the back, helping me along. Cruel. Don�t play with your food, Mister Snowstorm� it�s bad manners.

 

Silver laughter pierces through white noise. I squint to the left, knowing what I�ll see� and I�m mistaken.

 

There is no Ritchey there.

 

I stop to look. Can�t but do that. Far ahead of me, thin white silhouettes are dancing in the wind. There are four of them� no, five� maybe six? So light, seems they�re not even touching the snow they�re dancing on. I think I see a slender white hand� a wave of silver hair� I think I see that at least two of them are women, and one is a man� and who are the others then? No, I can�t be sure�

 

They�re laughing and dancing, but I can�t hear their music.

 

And the next second the dance breaks off, and the figures freeze.

 

Did they see me?

 

I panic. I know I�m panicking, but I can�t help it. I think I hear words, words I don�t understand, spoken in a cold silvery voice. Calm, merciless words. I turn and run. Right into the snow. Into the field. Right into the great big white open.

 

Snow is a funny thing. It looks soft and fuzzy, and if it has just fallen, you fall through if you step on it. And we forget that it can get dense, thick, solid. We forget that every new layer, brought by another storm, presses it down, so it becomes hard as rock.

 

I run into the field, and� though I stumble, though I fall through to my knees, though my boots fill with snow almost immediately, I�m still running. I�m still able to do that.

 

Where?... Doesn�t matter. Away. Far and farther. I don�t want to see them, so beautiful it kills. I don�t want to hear them, voices so sweet they drive me insane. I don�t want to feel them � colder than cold, so cold I can feel it on the inside, as if I had an lump of ice in my chest and the cold were spreading outwards from it.

 

I run. The wind in my ears, the wind in my eyes. Endless winter around me. Is that their laughter I heard on the left? I turn to the right abruptly, almost breaking my own ankle as it gets caught in the snow. Is it one of them on the right? I retreat and sprint off, afraid to feel the stare of icy eyes on my back.

 

Maybe I�m just seeing things. Maybe the wind and the snow and my own tortured mind are fooling me.

 

I keep running for a long time. And when I can�t run anymore, I walk. Slowly, stumbling� but still moving. I can�t quit moving, no. When I can�t walk anymore, I�ll crawl.

 

I don�t know where I am. I can�t see the road. I can�t see the deadwood grove. Snow is blocking my vision. Snow is blocking my everything.

 

Is that a human over there?

 

Someone sitting in the snow, so weirdly relaxed, as if he were in an armchair in front of fire in his living-room. If he were dressed in black, I�d walk away. But he�s wearing red� bright red, if even through this mess I can see it� I drag myself through the storm towards him.

 

�Hey! Heeey!� I bend over the man in the snow and touch his shoulder.

 

Oh shit.

 

It�s Larry. Larry in his red parka, sitting in the snow, staring right in front of him. His eyes, wide open, are glazed over with fine sleet.

 

He is smiling with a happy, delighted, childish smile.

 

I scream and push his body away, and maybe I do it to harshly, because his arm breaks off right at the shoulder, where I was touching him. I try to step away and fall.

 

Doesn�t matter. Away, away, away. Hands and knees, if I have to.

 

What did you see, Larry? Who did you see? Your father? Your mother? Your favorite dog? Who did your selfish little heart love?

 

Because I think I know what it�s all about now. I could probably even put it into words if I were given enough time. I could explain it. I�

 

I see boots and faded blue jeans right in front of me.

 

And then I stop.

 

Because even the animal in me knows that now it�s all pointless.

 

I sit back right in the snow and look up at the man in front of me. At my man. At the man who used to love me.

 

�There you are, Dean.�

 

�Who are you?� I ask tiredly. �Who are you? Why do you have to play with me like this?�

 

A mask of pain twists Ritchey�s face. I could even buy it. If I hadn�t seen his eyes up close.

 

�Could it be you really don�t remember me, Dean?�

 

�I remember,� I say firmly. �I remember every little thing. How come you do?�

 

�I missed you.�

 

�No.� His perplexity is as convincing as his pain, but I force myself to say it, because it�s true: �You couldn�t. We�ve never met.�

 

�Prickly. Always prickly, like a little hedgehog. You were like this when I first saw you.�

 

It hurts, oh how it hurts.

 

�You don�t have to be this way, Dean. You don�t have to run anymore. Just let me love you. Because you know I love you, don�t you?�

 

He bends down to me, and yes, I know this voice, I know this face, I�ve been missing these arms that were so comforting, and I hear no lie in his words, maybe it�s him, and maybe he does love me�

 

� Only in his eyes, in his cold, glittering eyes, there�s no love at all.

 

�No,� I tell him, feeling water in my eyes, feeling it freeze on my face. �Ritchey loved me. But the dead can�t love the living. And you are not him.�

 

And suddenly, he straightens up. Suddenly, his whole body trembles, as if he were a reflection on the water and someone splashed a hand nearby. And then�

 

� Then he disappears. And I see the one who�s talking to me.

 

It�s a man. He�s tall, lean and delicate, wearing something white and shiny� a coat? A cloak? It looks like snow is clinging to his body, whirling around it, streaming in small currents up and down it. His face is symmetrical, inhumanly correct, with a small thin-lipped mouth and� huge eyes of a Japanese cartoon character, pale blue, shaded by long eyelashes. The eyelashes are silver � as is his hair, long and shimmering, waving slightly in the wind.

 

Beautiful. And scary.

 

There�s a little smile on those pale lips, and his icy eyes are sparkling with lazy curiosity.

 

You see me. I don�t hear him. The voice, silver chimes, sounds in my head, right between my ears. You see me through him. How do you do it?

 

I shake my head weakly.

 

�I�ve lived with him for years,� I tell him. �How could I mistake more than once?�

 

Everyone does.

 

He gets closer. I�m not sure he�s even walking. The wail of the storm is suddenly blocked out, distant noise somewhere on the edge of perception, and it�s only me and him now. And the talk between us.

 

�That�s how you do it. Is that? You fool people. You show them someone they love. And they get caught on it, like fish on a hook.�

 

The silver-haired head tilts slightly left, then right. It�s a no.

 

We don�t lie. We never lie. We don�t have to.

 

For a moment, almost imperceptible, he turns into Ritchey again. A momentary flash, but I see every little detail in him. And then he�s himself again and telling me, It�s him. Your man. He�s here, in me. They all are in me.

 

And as the realization dawns over me, I gasp loudly, staring at him.

 

�You�ve stolen them,� I whisper. �Stolen their souls.�

 

Laughter, resounding and careless.

 

What is a soul? How can I take something if I don�t know what it is? We take those who we find. Everyone who�s out there in our winds, listening to our music, they belong to us, and we claim them. I took him. And now he is in me. And he does want to see you, even though he isn�t alone.

 

�Soul� is the wrong word, then. And what is the right one? �Essence�? �Entity�?

 

Whatever a human really is�

 

�Who was it?� I ask. �His sister and the man he loved died by fire, not by frost. Who was it that he was so desperate to see?�

 

It is his secret, not mine. Come, join him. He might tell you. He might even show you.

 

�Why are you talking to me? You can� take me now, can�t you? Why are you wasting your time?�

 

His smile grows wider, showing the row of impeccably white, very small teeth. Sharp teeth.

 

What is time?

 

Maybe time is something they don�t need to understand. I look at him, and the only thing that makes me wonder is that I�m not dead yet.

 

I want to know, he says, and his eyes become thoughtful, or maybe I�m wrong to still be thinking of him in human terms. I want to know why you can see me. Sometimes your children see us. But you are no child. And you do love.

 

And then I laugh. My laughter is hoarse and bitter, but I laugh until I start coughing.

 

�I�ve been told,� I tell him, choking on my laughter, �I�ve been told I never really grew up. And I�m such a bitter paranoid kid� that my love isn�t blind.�

 

He draws yet closer and bends over me, and I�m out of laughter as suddenly as I�m out of breath.

 

That�s new. That�s something I�ll want to share with my brothers and sisters. You�ll want to tell them that. Yourself.

 

�Bite me,� I wheeze. �Cut the bullshit��

 

And still, even though this smile is so eerie, it�s lovely to see.

 

I could. But don�t you really want to come along? It�s good. You will like it, man-child, I promise. You�ll be with the one you love, and you won�t be cold anymore. Never ever. Never again.

 

And my mind agrees with him. My mind knows that he isn�t lying. That I�ll be spared the horrors of slow death that await those who will live. That I won�t have to hide from storms. To starve when we finally run out of flour and salt-beef, and hell, after seven years, it has to be soon. And maybe� just maybe� I really won�t be alone anymore.

 

It�s only my heart of hearts that keeps screaming. That keeps protesting as he reads the agreement in my eyes and bends down yet closer, his face inches from mine. Because in my heart of hearts, I now know what that someone felt who left the three letters CRO carved in a tree trunk on Roanoke over four hundreds years ago. The overwhelming urge to warn. To share what you know, because now you know� And a perfectly clear understanding that you don�t have any time left to do so.

 

This isn�t cold. This is beyond cold. This is pure death breathing in my face and it feels so good, Lily was right, it feels so damn good that I know I�m smiling. It�s a matter of nanoseconds now. Smallest, insignificant units of time, time, which isn�t even important. Just another nanosecond. And then�

 

And then there�s light. Blindingly bright, hot yellow. Piercing through the white around me like a huge spade, flooding me, catching the snow shade above me. And there is a voice, a real voice, a voice I know. And it is so furious, it burns.

 

�YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE, COLD-ASS FROZEN SCUM!�

 

Now, that I totally refuse to believe. It doesn�t happen in real life. In real life, no-one ever comes so awfully, amazingly, utterly in time.

 

When the snow shade gets caught in the wide ray of direct light, he screams. And there�s nothing silver about this scream, nothing enchanting. Nothing beautiful. It�s shrill and furious, like the wail of the wind, like the scrape of snow crumbs gritting against the glass, like the screeching of a frozen dead tree breaking off under the blow of the storm. He shrieks, and a grimace of pure hatred twists his face, so regular and beautiful, into an ugly mask.

 

And then he�s gone.

 

It�s as if someone broke an invisible sound-proof glass shield. All of a sudden, there�s noise. And that�s the kind of noise I wasn�t expecting to hear. Low rumbling of motors. Voices of people, shouting short abrupt phrases to each other. And the crunching of snow under somebody�s boots.

 

Someone is rushing towards me.

 

�Dean!�

 

Someone pulls me out of the snow, starts shaking me.

 

�Dean?.. Oh holy fuck. Dean, don�t you dare. Don�t you fucking dare die on me!�

 

I open my eyes and see black. Black and red.

 

�You bitch,� I force myself to whisper. �I hope you came back to shove your fucking money up your ass.�

 

I mean it, too.

 

It�s somehow unfair that the last thing I hear before blacking out is laughter.

------------------------

 

�Listen, it�s your indisputable right. I�m not going to argue with that. You can go back to hating me right after you drink this shit, okay?�

 

It�s the first thing he says to me. Must be because I scowled at him when he shoved that glass into my face. I don�t think I really hate him anymore, but it�s nice he doesn�t know it. So I scowl at him some more. Then I sigh.

 

�I can�t sit up. Just try laughing and I�ll kill you as soon as I get stronger.�

 

�You think it�s funny?� He shakes his head. Then he puts the glass he�s holding on the bedside table and helps me sit up straight. No, he doesn�t look as if he thought it was funny. He looks concerned. Really concerned and a good deal guilty.

 

�Give it to me.�

 

He hesitates, then gives me the glass. My hand is a little shaky � damn, I can�t stand that� - but I don�t let my fingers slip as I bring the glass to my lips. There�s something bubbly in it. Maybe it�s some old-ass fizzy medicine. It doesn�t taste too bad.

 

He takes the glass from my hand, gently but firmly. I give him another scowl. Then I remember.

 

�Shit. Theo. The City� I have to talk to Jake��

 

�Hey, sit back! Sit back. You�ve already told them all there is to tell. You were talking about it even in your sleep, when you were delirious. And when you woke up for the first time, that was all you wanted to talk about.�

 

�I woke up?�

 

�You don�t remember? Yeah, you did. And we couldn�t even make you take the medicine until you told Jake all you wanted. I mean, I�m not sure you really knew it was Jake, because you were looking right through him, but you told him alright.�

 

I relax a little. It�s amazing how I feel tired even though I haven�t done anything. I�ve been really sick a few times in my life, but I don�t think I�ve ever been that weak before.

 

�You�ll be okay,� Theo says hastily, seeing my face. �Really. That�s what the Doc says. He says you�re a lucky sonofabitch.�

 

�You never even knew my mom.�

 

It makes him break off for a while. Then he laughs.

 

�You really are something, Dean. Anyway, he says that you haven�t even gotten a frostbite. He says it�s too early to be sure, but he thinks you have neither any inner organs dysfunction nor pneumonia. You have a really bad cold though. And you�ve overstrained yourself. That�s why you�re so weak.� He is silent for a while, then he adds: �He was surprised. He was ready to cut you right up. He says that usually people who spend as much time in the storm as you do get at least some limbs frozen off.�

 

�You wish.�

 

�No. I don�t. I like you when you�re whole.�

 

I shoot him a look full of indignation and want to tell him what I think about his likes and dislikes, but instead of it, I start coughing. Yeah, Doc is right. This cough is bad. Maybe I don�t have pneumonia, but I�ll be trying to get rid of this shit in my bronchi for weeks.

 

Theo tenses but doesn�t try to comfort me.

 

�So have you done it yet?�

 

�What?� he looks perplexed.

 

�What I told you to do with that hundred bucks you left me. Because if not, I don�t know why I�m even talking to you.�

 

�Ah, that. I wanted to.� His eyes are laughing. But they are so warm I almost don�t mind. �But see, I couldn�t find it.�

 

�Aw hell. Right. I forgot. I tore it up. Nevermind, I�ll find you another one, absolutely identical. It�ll have to do.�

 

He nods and hangs his head.

 

�Why did you do that?� I ask him. I don�t want to hurt him. I just want to know. �Why did you leave like this? I wasn�t going to chain you to my bed, you know. Wasn�t going to throw fits or anything. I wouldn�t even ask you to stay. Ever. Why?�

 

He doesn�t look up. Not even when he talks again.

 

�Because I�m a fool. And because I�m a panic-monger. It wasn�t you who was going to chain me to this place.�

 

Silence.

 

�It was me.�

 

�You could just ask me,� I say coldly. �I�d kick your ass right out for you. I�m always glad to do someone a favor.�

 

He doesn�t reply.

 

�Why did you come back? How the fuck did you even happen to be there, in the field?�

 

�We saw the blast,� he says at once. �It was a clear night, so we kept moving, and we heard it and saw the fires.�

 

�From so far away?�

 

�The glow was really bright. Too bright to be anything else. We all knew right then that at least one of their smart bombs had gone off. Only we didn�t know where.� He glances at me, then looks away. And suddenly he says, so low I scarcely hear him: �I was going to turn back. Alone. I was going to resign. And go back. At once. You have every right not to believe that, okay? But I was.�

 

Maybe I do believe him. I want to believe.

 

�But it turned out I didn�t have to. We tried to connect to the City, but we couldn�t. It looked like there wasn�t a single transmitter left there.�

 

Because there isn�t. I�m going to really miss that surf and ska-punk guy.

 

�Then we tried to get in touch with other squads. And most of them answered.�

 

�How so?�

 

�I told you we weren�t the only ones who didn�t like what was going on. There were two squads at most left in the city by that night, Dean.�

 

�Fleeing rats, that�s what you guys are.�

 

�Alive, that�s what we are!� he parries. �The closest to the city was Ben�s squad. By the way, they weren�t fleeing. The were coming home after a mission. They couldn�t get close, because there was smoke everywhere, and they retreated, but it was them who told us the City was burning.�

 

�Go on. You haven�t answered my question.�

 

�Give me time. I�m getting there. The next morning, after we talked to Ben and other squads, we sat down and discussed it with the guys. We could go on. We were halfway to the next City down the Outwards Road, actually, probably closer than that. Less to go there, than here.� He rubs his forehead absent-mindedly. �I didn�t take part in it. I knew I was going back. But then they came to me and told me the same thing. They were going back here, they said, because if there was a place outside the City they wanted to live in, it was your Town. They liked the people there, they liked the place. They said that maybe if we stayed and offered constant help in raids � both search raids and provision raids � maybe you guys would let us stay and help us settle.�

 

Of course they would. Every Town dreams to have its own Snow Patrol.

 

�So we just went back to the Town they liked.� He finally stares me square in the eye. �They did, anyway. Because I went back to you.�

 

�Spare me the pathos.�

 

�Whatever. You asked, I told you. We came here, and they told us that you were away, with that guy, and that you might not have enough gas. It was unlikely you could get help in the City, so we decided to drive out to meet you guys. It was only when we found the second jeep when I began to get really worried. And when we found your car�� he breaks off.

 

There�s a knock on the door, and Holly gets into the room, carrying a bowl.

 

�Clear soup for the master,� she says and pretends to make a curtsy. �Sorry for breaking into your house, Dean, but Doc said that salt-beef delicacies would have to wait, and your brave friend couldn�t manage much more.�

 

�Thanks,� I say, astonished. The smell from the bowl in her hands feels the room and I suddenly realize I�m really, really hungry. A delicious, heavenly smell� chicken soup?!

 

�Holly! What, am I your prime investment now? First eggs, now chicken soup� how am I going to��

 

�Can you shut him up?� she asks Theo. �He shouldn�t shout with a sore throat like this. According to old Thompson, anyway.�

 

I hastily close my mouth.

 

�That�s better. Dean, you got in trouble because the Town Council sent you on a mission. For all of us, do you get my idea? And you got in trouble because the Town Council � including my personal fool of a husband � voted to send that Kibbler idiot with you.�

 

�Larry�s dead,� I tell her softly. Her face doesn�t change a bit. She nods.

 

�I know. And best for him, really, because if he were alive, I�d tear him limb to limb, and I know quite a few people who�d help me.�

 

�I talked of him? In delirium?�

 

�You did. But we understood what happened right away. When the SP�s brought back your cars. He still had three of your canisters in his trunk.�

 

Poor idiot. It didn�t save him. If he had done what I told him, we both could have made it to the city.

 

Maybe.

 

�So it was because of us that you got in trouble. That understood? And I�d gladly give out all my money to cover that up. Never mind the cost of a couple of chicken. But Mary and Roy didn�t let me. They all but shoved it into my hands along with another dozen of eggs. I�m afraid you�re going to eat a lot of poultry products in the next few days, Dean, so you�d better put up with this idea.�

 

I don�t say anything. I don�t know what to say.

 

�Okay. You eat. I�ll go tell the others you�re finally really awake.�

 

Wait a minute. Wait a pink cotton lace-decorated minute!

 

�Others? Holly, how many people are here?�

 

�Well� let�s see. There�s me. There�s Ally Comfrey, she�s helping me with the cooking. There�s her husband here, he�s helping mine, they are trying to do something with your car down in the yard � no, don�t freak out, we�ll leave all the important stuff to you, but it needs some help after being left in the storm with a broken window. And Jake and Doc were here, too, but they went off because Doc needs to check on Lily as well. She�s doing better, but she�s still sick.�

 

�What�� I whisper. �What are you all doing here?�

 

She gives and exasperated sigh.

 

�Getting you indebted to us forever, what else. Mr. Calloway, if he doesn�t eat, spoon-feed him. And if he puts up a fight and you don�t manage, just call me over.�

 

She leaves the room.

 

�It�s you? Mr. Calloway?�

 

Theo smirks.

 

�More or less. Fancy some spoon-feeding?�

 

�Never. Theo� Theo, can you tell me? Why are they all here? I�m not Jake, I�m hardly ever in town, I don�t think I�ve seen Ally Comfrey in the last three years, why is she here cooking for me? Just because I went to the City and back?�

 

�You know, Dean,� Theo says pensively, stirring the soup in the bowl with a spoon, �I think they just like you. In fact, I think they�ve always liked you. But what happened yesterday made them like you a little more. And remember it, too.�

 

It can�t be. It doesn�t register. They can�t. I don�t belong with them. I don�t even really know them. It was Ritchey who was Jake�s friend, and I was just a kid Ritchey brought a long. There was no reason to love me after Ritchey died, that�s why I�ve always been a loner. Surely they couldn�t�

 

� like me for what I am?

 

�Eat, Dean. Or I swear I will spoon-feed you. Of course, on the condition that you kill me when you get a little stronger.�

 

For a while, there�s silence in the room. No distractions. To tell you the truth, it�s rather hard to distract me from chicken soup. When I�m done with it, I feel stronger, even though a little sleepy.

 

�If you�ve decided to stay in my room for life without invitation, you�ll have to at least help me to the bathroom. A bit later.�

 

�Doc said��

 

�Drop that �Doc said� routine, will you? I respect Doc, but I�m not going to piss myself just because he said so.�

 

�Okay. I�ll help you. But getting dressed just to��

 

Getting dressed?.. Ugh. Women in the house.

 

�There�s a bathrobe in my wardrobe. There, under the towels. Right. Thanks.�

 

�Welcome,� he mutters, unfolding the robe and hanging it over the back of the chair.

 

I sigh. There�s just one thing left to find out.

 

�Theo. What did you see when you found me?�

 

He turns around. His eyes are alarmed.

 

�Theo. Don�t you think we�ve done enough bullshitting each other? Tell me. You were shouting. Shouting at someone� or something. I remember. What did you see?�

 

Theo bites his lip. Thinks a bit.

 

�I�m not sure, Dean. It looked like a whirl� but it was a strange whirl, because I could see it among other whirls, even though it was whiter than white. And then for a second I thought I saw� a man, maybe. He was bending down to you, and you�� He takes a deep breath. �You were beginning to smile.�

 

We look at each other for what must be a full minute. No words. We know what each of us thinks. And then we look away.

 

�Why did the light drive him away, I wonder?� he murmurs.

 

�Maybe they aren�t very fond of the light. They like storms. Who knows� maybe they bring them along.�

 

�Or maybe it wasn�t the light at all. Maybe� maybe they don�t like it when it gets a little warmer. I mean��

 

He breaks off, not able to find the words. But he doesn�t need to. I know what he means. I remember his voice. I remember the fury in it. I remember that it wasn�t just warm.

 

I remember how it burnt.

 

When we speak up, we do it simultaneously, saying different things, but in the same kind of voice:

 

�Forgive me.�

 

�Stay.�

 

That makes us stare at each other again. And then, once again in chorus, in one and the same slightly surprised tone, we tell each other:

 

�Heh, a deal!�

 

More staring.

 

Theo is the first to start laughing. And I do it too, and hell, I haven�t had such a good laugh for years, mindless, silly, side-splitting laughter. It makes me cough in the end, but I�m still laughing.

 

�Hey,� Theo moans, unable to stop chuckling, �you quit that! It hurts your throat.�

 

�Afraid that Holly and Doc will kick your ass to the moon and back?� I snort, and burst out laughing again. That must be some kind of hysterics, but I don�t care.

 

�If you get worse, I�ll do it to myself. Without their help.� He�s serious now, and I take a deep breath, trying to suppress both laughter and coughing.

 

�You really are staying, then?�

 

�Between you and my squad, it�s not like I have a choice.�

 

�If you decide to take off again, please let me know in a more conventional way.�

 

He bites his lip. I grab him by the sleeve and make him sit down beside me.

 

�You don�t know how many times I cursed myself for even writing that note,� he says.

 

�I never read it.�

 

�It�s good.�

 

�Theo� is your pencil-box working?�

 

I just ask him this because when I think of the note it makes me think of the pencil box, and that makes me wonder, because I told him as it was � I�ve never been good with chips.

 

But he looks at me as if I said something tremendous. Like, that the second coming of Christ will occur tomorrow right here in this bedroom. And then he hugs me, and this hug is definitely against Doc�s recommendations, because it knocks the very breath out of me, but I don�t complain. I don�t complain at all.

 

�I�ll let you stay at my house if you help me with the cleaning,� I tell him when he lets me go.

 

I have a very particular cleaning in mind. There�s too much Ritchey left in the house. I want to keep some for a memory, but most of it will have to go. Because he�s gone, and this is my house now, and the Ritchey I knew would tell me to do so himself.

 

�Okay. I�ll have to stay. Someone has to drag you back into the house each time you run off wearing nothing but ragged jeans.�

 

He gives me a sideways glance as he says that, checking if I�m going to get all pissed again. But I smile. His heart is beating just at my ear, tock-tock-tock-tock, a little too fast. I guess my smile is somewhat sad.

 

�I won�t do it again. That I can promise to you. And Theo� you don�t either.�

 

He moves out a little, looking at me.

 

�Give me that goddamn photoalbum.�

 

It�s on the table, and Theo hesitates before touching it. Wow. I must be really convincing when I freak out.

 

�Come on, give it to me.�

 

He passes it to me, and I find a photo on one of the very last pages and show it to him.

 

�You wanted to know what he was like? Here he is. See for yourself.�

 

He looks at the photo. It�s about four years old, taken in the City while we still lived there. A big tall man in his thirties with short tousled dirty-blond hair, smiling at the camera, and a skinny, rather short seventeen-year-old boy, black-haired, tan-skinned and yellow-eyed. He�s also smiling. At the man.

 

�Is it seen?� I wonder softly. �Is it seen here that I really, really loved him? Maybe it�s not the right word, it sounds rather cheesy� but is it seen?�

 

�Yes,� he says, and his voice sounds strange.

 

�I don�t know if you have someone you loved, Theo. Someone the snow took away from you. But please, Theo, whatever happens, you have to remember: the dead really can�t love the living. It�s true. The living love the dead, but the dead can�t love you back. Not unless you turn dead, too. Don�t get fooled like I did. I don�t want to find you smiling in the snow one fine day.�

 

His arm around my shoulders tenses a little.

 

�You won�t.�

 

This I want to believe even more. His heartbeat finally slows down a bit, and his breathing is even. It�s silly� and I know it�s an illusion� but the warmth of his body beside mine makes me feel so� safe.

 

�I want to tell you something, Dean. Something nice, I promise. Maybe it�s just a rumor, but it�s a nice rumor.�

 

�Do.�

 

�You know, that night, when we were checking on all the other squads, we got in touch with that guy, Alex. He and his boys had run off even before we did, and they were so uneasy about the whole shit happening that they made it all the way to Nevada. And there, in a City in Nevada, they met a man who swore up and down that just a week before, he had seen fresh grass. Not in someone�s basement plantation, either. Normal green grass, growing out of the ground.�

 

My eyes shoot open.

 

�What?!�

 

�Alex says, at first they thought he was bullshitting them. But it was a man everyone respected, and they listened in. He was just back from a small Town near Beoware, and��

 

�The Geyser Basin,� I say unbelievingly. �The Beoware Geyser Basin. But they said they were dead! They said all the hot springs died out that very first May!�

 

�The people from Beoware told him that was what they thought. And the Basin remained dead for all seven years. But a few months ago the snow over the mud pits suddenly started to melt. And now� that guy said that it wasn�t just geysers. He said that for yards around, the ground was clear from snow. And covered in grass. He said� he said it felt like spring.�

 

�I�d love to see it,� I whisper, half-closing my eyes. Of course it�s just a silly rumor� but then again� every now in a while seasons must change, mustn�t they?

 

�We could go see them,� Theo says. �If we team up with someone else. A caravan of three or four cars will have no trouble making it to Nevada. And then we could see for ourselves. But it�ll have to wait �til you can at least walk.�

 

�You know how to motivate, don�t you?� I�m surprised to hear myself beginning to slur.

 

Theo looks at me for a while.

 

�You know, I think you�re drifting off.�

 

I slid down to the pillows, feeling warm, sated and unreasonably content.

 

�Sleep. I�ll wait right here. In case you need this robe.�

 

It�s nice to know. And it�s nice to know for sure that I will be okay. Because I will. There�s that little lump of cold inside me that I doubt will ever go away, but it�s okay, too. That�s small price for the knowledge I�ve got. A price I�m willing to pay.

 

Now I know why they smile.

 

 

THE END

 

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