By the time Jenna Flores reached the house, the snow had turned the driveway into a sheet of gray glass.
She sat in the car for one extra second with both hands still on the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick and the wind scrape dry branches along the roof.
Thanksgiving lights glowed from other houses on the block.
Kitchen windows were gold.
A football game flickered blue in somebody’s den.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, and the smell of wood smoke drifted through the cold like a memory of something normal.
Jenna had been telling herself normal was waiting inside.
She had driven three hours from Fort Bragg through black ice with Walmart grocery bags in the back seat and a frozen Butterball sliding every time she took a turn.
She had imagined Brady opening the door before she could knock.
She had imagined Elaine complaining that the potatoes were the wrong kind.
She had imagined Victor wrapped in his old Marine blanket in the recliner, pretending not to need help while secretly glad Jenna had brought his favorite Cabernet.
The porch light was off.
The little American flag by the mailbox snapped in the wind.
The house looked dead.
Jenna killed the engine, gathered the grocery bags, and stepped carefully over the icy porch boards.
Her key stuck for a moment in the lock.
That irritated her more than it should have, because irritation was easier than the dread already crawling up her spine.
When the door opened, the cold came out first.
It rolled over her face, sharp and stale, like the house had been holding its breath for days.
Jenna stood in the entryway with grocery bags cutting into her fingers and watched her breath fog in front of her.
No heater.
No lamps.
No television.
No low murmur of football from the living room.