It's cold

"It's cold."

The young man puts on his gloves.

He steps through the year's first snowfall to a wheelbarrow. He loads a pile of logs tucked under his cottage's eaves.

He puts the logs in the truck bed. Their weight will add traction. He knows snowy roads are dangerous.

He gets inside the cabin he always expects to be warmer.

It's cold.

The drive is long.

A sign asks everyone to drive safely - in memory of a woman he doesn't know. He's the only one driving today.

The blizzard comes suddenly.

He turns on the windshield wiper. Whipping into the ice, it stops, then snaps. The snow builds.

He misses a curve. The truck careens off the road, then stops.

He breathes. And he breathes and he breathes and thinks about how he's still breathing.

His truck is half-buried in a snowdrift. It isn't starting.

It's cold.

He calls the emergency line. They say they can't reach him until the blizzard ends tomorrow morning.

He has an old sleeping bag tucked away. He curls up in the front seat and waits.

Time moves slower when it's cold.

"It's cold."

He turns his head, confused why he's hearing his thoughts aloud.

His eyes meet those of a passenger: a young woman.

He pauses, then nods.

"It's cold."

She pauses, then introduces herself, asking if he minds.

He shakes his head, then realizes he's seen her name. He saw it on a sign.

She recognizes the recognition.

She says she was also stuck in a blizzard. They didn't rescue her in time.

The cold killed her.

He doesn't know what to say. She tells him he doesn't need to say anything.

Another pause.

She asks him if he knows about an orchard down the highway.

He says he does. He bought cider there in the fall.

She smiles proudly. She tells him it's her family's orchard.

They talk about the orchard, then the valley, and how each came to live there.

He says he feels lonely living there. He realizes that was inconsiderate to say. But she understands.

They talk into the night.

He stretches himself across the front bench, brushing against her thighs.

She's surprisingly solid.

He hesitates, then opens his sleeping bag invitingly.

"It's cold."

She smiles, but shakes her head. She says she doesn't get cold anymore. Not in that way. She doesn't even have any body heat to offer.

It doesn't matter to him.

She slithers into the sleeping bag.

He feels her press against him. She's not warm. But not warm is different than cold.

They look at each other. His breathing becomes shallow.

He removes his gloves. She furrows her brow.

"It's cold."

Still, his hands gently brush against hers.

She intertwines their fingers.

He doesn't feel as cold.

Holding onto her, he falls asleep. He doesn't know if she can sleep. He hopes she can.

The next morning he wakes to a tapping on his window.

He looks around the cabin. She's gone.

"It's cold."