I wish it was just boredom. I swallow and nod, then slide the money and keys in the pocket of my sweatshirt and head out the door before the kids can notice me. If this weather continues, I can’t delay. The mountain road we live on is no joke. Our van nearly slid into a ditch during a light rain, so snow won’t be any better. Not that I’ve ever been here in the winter.

The van creaks to life, and I pull out of the decaying three-bay garage and down the winding driveway, pinging gravel into the air behind the car. The snow looks almost pretty, landing delicately on the windshield.

It’s twenty miles to Art’s General, the closest store. I listen to the radio part of the way, but the only station we get is all static-filled talk about the blizzard that’s coming. Twenty inches expected, at least. I switch off the radio and try to ignore the tension in my hands from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. I concentrate on the tree-lined road. Of course I’d noticed the days getting darker and colder, but I thought it was only September. I’m losing track of time now, ever since Dad checked out in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye.

August 31. Three days before the official start of school. That was the last I saw him. The details are hazy, like a dream. Sawyer sees to that. But the outcome is the same. Dad’s gone. And we are alone with Mom and her whims.

This early in the morning, the parking lot at Art’s is empty. Not that it’s ever crowded. When I lived in Boston, weather like this packed the stores with frantic people stocking up on bread and milk and toilet paper. But there simply are no people to pack Art’s. It’s a wonder the store stays in business, but a good thing it does. Otherwise we’d probably starve to death.

I navigate around the old snowblower carcasses he has for sale on the sidewalk, then push open the heavy door. When the bell over the door tinkles, Elmer, who took over after Art died, stares at me like I’m a ghost. “Seda?”

I give him a wave.

He cranes his neck to look out the window. “Your mom with you?”

That’s the most he’s said to me, ever. Elmer’s never been a talker, so if I go about my business, he should leave me alone. “Not today,” I say, then turn to my list. It’s a mile long and has things like hot cocoa and canned vegetables and bottled water on it.

Either she’s way overestimating our appetites, or this is a We’re not going back to Boston list.