The radiator in the corner gave a loud, metallic clank, then went silent, leaving the kitchen cold enough that our breath left small, fleeting plumes in the air. I reached over and tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her ear, her skin warm and soft against my cold fingers.
“Eat your breakfast, sweetie,” I said.
I picked up the yellow flyer before the syrup could ruin the phone number printed at the bottom of the page.
The drive to the school that afternoon was quiet, the tires of our old sedan crunching through the frozen slush left by the morning’s light dusting of snow. On the corner of Maple Street, the sign at the Shell station read four dollars and twelve cents a gallon for regular, a number that seemed to rise every time I looked at it.
