Dead of Winter

by Darcy Coates

Each day felt like a fight to earn the right to be happy, and they were fights I lost more often than won.

None of us are getting out of here alive.

Steve is the first to break the silence. “Who did this?” It’s as though he expects one of us to raise our hand. That was me. Sorry for the inconvenience.

We step back as Denny cradles his boy’s body. Neither rigor mortis nor ice have been able to claim him yet, and Denny lays him on his back, his arms folded over his chest and his legs together. Then he kneels beside his son, arranging his clothes. Gently tugging the creases out. His hand flutters to where Grayson’s head should have been and I know he wants to brush his hair back.