It was cold, so cold. It felt like a brisk wind was blowing through the room. Outside in the garden, icicles had formed on the branches of the tree again and they were sparkling in the moonlight. The weather had been so changeable. And it looked as if it might change again.

“The person who used to be Max” had a button-down sweater on, cashmere, for sure. Tess wondered where that was from. But maybe boys borrowed clothes, too. That made sense. Except he was shivering. He was so cold. His lips were practically blue against his pale opaque white skin.

Max wasn’t that pale. He’d never been that pale.

He opened his mouth as if to speak to her, but only a puff of air came out. The way one breathes outside on a cold day when your breath is hotter than the air. Except it wasn’t quite like an exhaled breath, more like a waft of white smoke that curled up strangely in the air. And then another. And then a funny sound inside his chest, as if he was trying to breathe.

Max sometimes got asthma. But Tess didn’t think that this was that.

No one had built a fire in their room that day. Tess didn’t see any logs by the hearth or she would have attempted it. She could time his breaths by the wispy white smoke in the air. He seemed to be breathing slowly, so slowly.

Was he trying to tell her something?

There was so much time between each breath.

It felt as if time itself had slowed even more. Tess couldn’t tell if there were twenty seconds or longer between each of the breaths, or if you could even call it a breath. There were just wisps of bright white smoke curling up in the air.

Tess realized she had been holding her breath. People did that sometimes when they were frightened. At least that’s what her dad said. And then he’d given them advice, “Breathe. Always remember to breathe. Especially if something’s making you anxious.”

Tess let her breath out, then breathed in deeply, then let it out again and realized there was no visible sign of her breath, no white wisps of smoke when she breathed. Just his. And his breaths were coming at strange irregular intervals.

As she walked towards him, Tess felt as if she was moving in slow motion, too, as if there was resistance in the air and she was moving through a haze or a fog. Maybe she could reach Max. Maybe if she did something completely Max-like, she could get him to come back.

“Let’s go up to the library,” she said. “Please, Max.” Maybe, if she spoke to Max, she could bring him back. “I’ll play chess with you, Max. I don’t mind if you win. . . .”