Snow on His Face
The doormat had almost disappeared.
Snow lay over the rough fibers in a thin white crust, then a thicker one, then a small drift pressed flat by Ethan Cole’s boots. He stood with his shoulders curled inward, royal-blue hood pulled tight around his face, gray gloves clamped under his arms between knocks.
The apartment door did not open.
It was dark brown, old, swollen at the edges from too many winters. Warm light leaked from the frame in narrow yellow lines. Someone inside moved once, or Ethan thought someone did. The floor beyond the door made a faint sound, the kind a child recognizes even through wood.
He knocked again.
Not loudly. He was past loud now.
His gloves hit the door with soft, useless thumps.
“Let me in,” he cried.
The wind took part of his voice and dragged it around the brick corner.
Ethan pressed one cheek to the door because the wood was warmer than the air. Snow melted on his eyelashes. It ran with his tears until he could not tell which was which. His pale green eyes stayed fixed on the brass handle even after he knew it would not turn.
He was twelve, small for his age, with a long oval face and dark hair hidden under the hood. His chin trembled so hard it hurt. His mouth had gone numb except for the cracks in his lips. The gloves were damp at the seams.
He counted to twenty.
Then thirty.
Then he forgot the numbers and listened instead.
A laugh came from inside.
Not his mother’s laugh exactly. Lower than hers. A man’s, maybe. Then a hush, sharp and quick, the sound adults make when they want a child to vanish without saying vanish.
Ethan stepped back from the door and looked up at it.
It looked taller than before.
He knocked with both fists.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
The storm answered for her.
Across the narrow landing, behind another old door, Mrs. Ansel heard the second knock change.
May you like
The first had been a child asking.
The second was a child beginning not to believe.
