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Lucky for me, I work in the library Books tell me that pine needles have vita them home on my sled The tea I make from them is bitter, but Leo complains no more

I wish he would

Dark Cold

I can hearin the bed beside my I feel his brow He is not hot, thank God

I knohat has wakened one out

I want to do nothing about it

The thought hits before I can guard against it I could do nothing, just lie there, holding o to sleep forever

There are worse ways to die

Then I feel Anya’s tiny legs brush up against mine In her sleep, she murmurs, “Papa,” and I remember my promise

I take forever to get up Everything hurts There is a ringing in my ears and

When I wake from my faint, I am disoriented For a second, I hearHis pen tip scratches words across the bumpy linen paper

No

I go to the bookcase Only the last of the treasure is left: my father’s own poetry

I cannot burn them

Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today Instead, I take the ax—it is so heavy—and crack off a piece of the side of the bookcase It is thick, old wood, hard as iron, and it burns hot