And…there is one other person he could call.

“Actually,” he tells the attendant, “maybe I do.”

Chapter Two

Robbie

Thirty years ago.

Even at six years old, Robbie’s always been a light sleeper who wakes when he hears the first person stirring in the house. That person is usually his dad—making coffee, tugging on his boots, and heading outside before the sun rises.

This morning, Robbie pads downstairs to see the warm glow of light spilling through the kitchen door and snow piling up in every window. His dad is poised by the back door, halfway into his winter gear.

“Dad,” Robbie whispers. “I wanna come help you do chores.”

His dad grins. “You sure, buddy? It’s cold out there.”

Robbie nods solemnly, so his dad bundles him into his snow pants and boots, his heaviest coat, and his hat. Then, he finishes his own preparations, wrapping a silk scarf twice around his neck. He seems to sense Robbie watching him, and hesitates, but then he bends down in front of him and folds another scarf carefully, doubling it down until it’s a third of its original size.

“You know the secret of silk, buddy?” The rag is one his father wears often, pale sky blue and dusted with a subtle floral pattern. Robbie shakes his head. “It’s cool in the summer and warm in the winter,” his dad confides. He wraps the scarf around Robbie’s neck and knots the ends together, just like Robbie has seen him do a hundred times for himself. “There you go. Now, you really look like a Chase.” He winks, his eyelashes golden and bronze in the lamplight. “What do you think about that?”

Robbie grins. “Cool,” he says, and his father laughs.

They step outside into a snow-blurred sunrise, and Robbie squeals when his dad grabs him around the waist with one arm and swings him over the banked snow on the steps, landing him safely in the fluffy drifts on the ground.

“You know the secret of snow?” his dad asks.

Robbie shakes his head vigorously, feeling the silk move against his throat, soft and warm against his skin.

“Three months after a heavy fog, you’ll get rain or snow. So, in the fall, you can start marking your calendar for the snowy mornings. What do you think about that?”

“Cool,” Robbie says, and his father laughs again.

Today.

Robbie didn’t jot down the dates of every foggy morning last November, but he remembers a string of days where it was so dense that he could barely see. He smiles at the realization that this January morning falls ninety days later, and then touches his neck, where a plain charcoal scarf is knotted around his throat. It’s not the blue one his dad gave him; he carried that with him almost daily after his dad died, until it went missing one day. The loss still stings. Even now, he can easily picture the faded roses in its pattern and feel the glide of the fine old silk between his thumb and forefinger, and smell the hint of coffee on his father’s breath when he knelt in front of Robbie and tied it around his neck the first time.