She woke to a brisk draft that danced across the tip of her turned up nose. The door was open. The fire must be started by now. Her left foot hung off the bed the way a dead man’s may fall limp following a heart attack. Her toes were numbed by the frozen breeze that wafted into her room. She had kicked off her socks in the night. The scent of warm ash and sickly sweet pine filled the air. Tuesday. Minutes go by as she dreads the next few to come. The sudden vibration on her nightstand reminds her it’s time to get up. The crackling of the freshly kindled flame hits her ears as she enters the main den. 

Your hair’s a mess.

Her mother rises from beside the fire in her plaid robe that the girl remembers from her childhood. 

I just woke up.

It’s 7:20.

I know.

Okay. I'm leaving in five minutes.

I won’t be ready.

Okay.

The girl threw her knit robe over her bony shoulders and oversized t-shirt. Her eyes followed the cracks in the floorboards up to the window and out into the darkness of the morning. A fresh layer of soft grey snow had covered the ground the night before. It would be melted by noon. She wiggled her toes into feeling again. The door was shut, the fire ablaze. Tuesday. 

    The girl wandered into the dimly lit kitchen and turned on the chandelier light. One bulb out. The house cat ambled across the tiled floor in a slow manner, every step equivalent to the last, in waiting for it’s morning meal. 

    Good morning Charlie, said the girl, though she knew no reply would come.

She pondered the thought of such a greeting, knowing that this particular morning was no good at all. The tile let out a small squeak as the girl shifted from her left to her right foot and back again. Good morning. 

She heard the low rumble that indicated the start of an engine. Five minutes had come and gone. Her tattered robe hung off of one shoulder accentuating her thin arms. Her toes had gone numb again. The fire went out. She rummaged through the near empty cabinets only to find stale cereal that now housed pantry moths, and bars that consisted of sugar and promises to provide substantial energy. Choosing the less detrimental option she grabbed one of the colorfully wrapped bars and headed into the den where the fire sat black and flameless. She tossed a piece of damp wood atop the embers and waited for the fine orange flames to emerge through the stacked wood. But no flames appeared, as if to mock the girl’s frozen feet and remind her that it’s a cold Tuesday morning. Then a small branch caught. The flame grew slowly, gently licking the stones that sat inside of the stove. The girl breathed in the smoky scent that reminded her of deep snow and simpler times. A car door shut. Five more minutes gone by. Her mother strode through the door and scoffed at the sight of her daughter still in her robe and bare feet. 

I'm going to be late for work.

The fire went out.

I'm leaving now with or without you. 

Okay.

The girl awaited her mothers reaction to her lack of care. The sap from the burning wood crackled as it was engulfed in the fresh flames. The room got smaller. 

Finally her mother let out an indifferent sigh, walked back out to her warmed van, and left. The girl could hear the car hum down the road until the bus stop, then silence. The gutter began to drip rhythmically outside of the picture window. A sliver of sunlight peeked through the darkened clouds and coated the split ranch house in a warm deceiving glow. She knew the snow would be gone by noon but the bitter unforgiving cold would remain. She crawled back into her bed and let herself feel the weight of her cotton winter blanket. She fell back into a world of warmth as the sliver of golden light slipped back behind the unrelenting gray clouds, and the small house was once again engrossed in darkness.