The red wool unwound from her mouth and ears, the knife loosed itself from her fingers. Snow hammered the cottage now, heavy like mice falling on the roof. Her father's face was on a pallet next to the hearth, dying embers yellowing his forehead and cheek. But his neck, his neck nestled in warm brown like tree bark, his shoulders hairy, rounded, his hand a paw now, batting his blanket while dreaming of some warmer bed in another home. Was it? Was it? Ice melted off her scarf and the girl, staring, didn't notice.