“Holy shit!” the same voice swore. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Reagan shouted from the ground.

“Don’t move!” Whoever it was was getting closer.

“You don’t move—are you wearing a mask?”

“Oh . . . no.”

“Then stay where you are!” Reagan set the Jell-O salad on the ground. “I’m fine!”

She pushed up onto her knees. She could see him now, the neighbors’ son—the quiet one with no chin. Standing about ten feet away from her. He had his arms out like he was still about to help her up.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.” She was a little hurt. Her knee felt scraped, and her hip was already throbbing. She lifted herself up onto her feet—

Then hit another patch of ice. The guy darted toward her. She caught her balance and pointed at him. “No!”

He stopped, his hands still up. She could see his breath.

“I swear to God, Mason”—Reagan didn’t even remember that she remembered his name—“I have been quarantining for two weeks, and I am not giving my grandpa Covid because you can’t listen.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he pulled his scarf up over his face—and Reagan thought at first that he was trying to hide his nonexistent chin. But then she realized he was trying not to blow germs at her. “Just be careful,” he said.

“I was being careful before you tripped me!”

“Before I tripped you?”

“You yelled at me!”

“I was saying hello so that I didn’t startle you.”

“Well, good work!”

“Reagan?” someone new shouted. “Are you okay?”

She looked up. Her grandpa was standing at the front door.

“I’m fine, Grandpa!”

“Did you fall?”

“No, I’m fine!”

“Let me get my coat.”

“No, Grandpa—stay!”

“Don’t come out, Al—it’s slick!”

“Is that you, Mason?”

“Yeah, don’t come out—I’ll help her.”

“Don’t you dare,” Reagan hissed.

“Just go,” Mason said. “Walk in the snow. It’s safer.”

He was right. She inched over to the snow, then stepped into it—even though she was wearing ankle boots, and the snow immediately fell over the tops. She got to the porch and up to the door—her grandpa was just coming back with his coat half on. Reagan hurried past him into the house and closed the door behind her.

And then there they were, she and her grandpa, standing not a foot apart. His coat was still hanging from one shoulder, and Reagan had tracked snow onto the carpet, and all she could think about in that moment was the air between them—the constant flow of droplets and microparticles. Her grandpa looked thinner than she remembered. Older than he’d looked just a few months ago. Like she could knock him over by breathing too hard.