I found his pulse at his neck instantly—rapid, faint, desperate. His heart was racing, struggling to warm blood that could barely circulate. Mild hypothermia I could handle. This was approaching moderate. Another hour outside, and the consequences could have been irreversible.
That’s when I looked up through the frosted glass.
They were all inside.
My father stood at the head of the table, carving the turkey with ceremonial care. My mother lifted a wineglass in a graceful toast. My sister Lily sat with her three perfect children—warm, clean, dressed in velvet and pressed vests. Laughter filled the room. Candles shimmered in silver holders. Fine china glowed under the chandelier.
I recognized everything. The flowers. The wine. The turkey. Every single detail had been paid for with my money—fifteen thousand dollars wired two weeks earlier when my mother said, “We’re struggling a bit this year, darling…”
