He bundled up under the covers and stared at the peeling plaster ceiling. The decrepit radiator rumbled to life, the old iron monster grunting and breathing hot air into the freezing flat. Its heat was no match for the chill that beat past the poorly sealed windows. Slowly, the cold filled the room, and no matter how many blankets Desmond wrapped himself in, he got colder.

To his surprise, the feeling of falling asleep in the cold brought to mind a memory. He saw himself trudging through the snow. The freezing powder was ankle deep. A small home sat in the distance. A wispy column of smoke rose from it, dissolving as it reached toward the full moon, a gray rope fraying in the sky. The snow fell faster with each step, whiting out the column of smoke and the cabin below.

Soon the snow was knee deep, slowing him almost to a halt. His legs burned with exhaustion as he lifted them, planted them, and pushed forward. His lungs ached from the cold. He just wanted to lie down and rest. But he resisted. He knew it would be his end. He had to keep going. Tears welled in his eyes, oozed onto his cheeks, and froze there. He carried something in his hands. It was heavy and cold, but he dared not drop it. His life depended on it.

Amid the wall of white snow, an orange beacon of hope shined through: the glow from the windows of the home. Safety was in sight. Seeing the warm home gave Desmond the energy to push on, even though he wanted to simply collapse in the snow and give up.

At the porch, he grabbed a timber column, panting, willing himself to cross to the door. He imagined it opening, the man inside seeing him, picking him up, and carrying him to the warmth of the fire. But Desmond knew that wouldn’t happen; the demon within the cabin wasn’t that kind of man. He was likely warming himself by the fire, hoping the boy he had never wanted was dead, buried in the snow-covered fields, gone for good.

That thought steeled Desmond’s will to live. He pushed forward, threw the door open, dropped the object he had carried, and stared at the man sitting by the large stone fire, a bottle filled with amber liquid at his side.

Without looking back, the monster called in a gruff, English accent, “Shut the bloody door, boy.”

Desmond slammed the door, stripped his snow-coated jacket off, and rushed to the fire. The heat scorched him at first, and he drew back, collapsing on the wood floor as he pulled more of the frozen and soaked clothes off. Shivering, he stared at the man, silently asking, Why didn’t you come looking for me? Don’t you care at all?

The man snorted dismissively, looked back at the fire, and gripped the bottle by the neck. He took a long pull, then handed it to Desmond.