Chapter 6: The True Winter
I entered the administration password into the blue icon one last time. My thumb pressed the reset button, sending the 256-bit authorization token back through the routing server in Chicago. Within three seconds, the red text flags on Richard’s phone disappeared, replaced by a long, vertical scroll of green checkmarks that meant the manifests were loading back into the onboard computers from Toledo to Cincinnati.
"They're back up," Richard gasped, his shoulders dropping so hard his silk tie swung out from his vest. "The fuel locks are releasing. Thank God. They're moving."
My father stood by the mirror, his face looking old and wrinkled in the yellow light of the chandelier, like a piece of paper that had been crumpled up and then smoothed out by someone who didn't care about the creases. He didn't look at me. He looked at his own reflection, his large hand coming up to touch the gold signet ring on his pinky finger as if he were trying to make sure it was still there.
"Maren," my mother said, her voice tiny and dry as a dead leaf against the linen of her collar. "The... the sweet potatoes. You can take the dish. It’s... it’s fine. We don't need the set."
"Keep it, Mom," I said, stepping out onto the porch. The cold air hit my face like a clean towel, wiping away the smell of the cloves and the brown sugar and the thirty-four years of being the wrong daughter. "The pecans are burnt anyway. You said so yourself."
I pulled the heavy oak door shut behind us. The brass latch clicked into place with a clear, solid snap that carried through the quiet of the Shaker Heights street.
Wren and I walked down the gravel driveway, our boots making a deep, satisfying crunch-crunch in the five inches of fresh snow. Her small green velvet dress was completely hidden beneath her yellow slicker, but she was holding the hem of it up with her left hand so it wouldn't catch the slush near the ditch.
When we reached the corner, the number 14 bus was already waiting, its large windshield wipers clearing two wide, crescent-shaped paths through the white flakes. The doors opened with a loud, pneumatic hiss of warm air that smelled of wet wool, diesel oil, and the generic floor cleaner the city used on the transit lines.
The driver was an older man with gray hair and a red Santa hat perched crookedly on top of his blue uniform cap. He looked down at Wren’s yellow slicker and her rubber boots and gave her a wide, toothless smile.
"Merry Christmas, little lady," he said, as we stepped up into the yellow light of the bus. "Where are we headed on a wild night like this?"
"Madison Avenue," Wren said, her voice clear and strong as she dropped two copper tokens into the glass fare box. "We’re going to the bakery. My mommy’s going to buy a cake with the white snow frosting."
"Sounds like the best place in the city," the driver said, shifting the heavy lever into gear.
We sat near the back, our wet boots resting on the ribbed metal floorboards where the heater was blowing a steady, roaring stream of hot air against our ankles. I looked out the dark window as the bus pulled away from Shaker Heights, the large houses with their marine-varnished porches and their sterling chandeliers fading into the white curtain of the storm until they looked like nothing more than old teeth in the dark.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen was still cracked, but the mobile banking app showed a balance of ten thousand and twelve dollars. It wasn't a settlement from a trucking company; it wasn't a gift card left on a kitchen table; it was the price of my own work, paid in full under the law of the server.
May you like
Wren leaned her head against my arm, her dark curls catching a faint green glint from the exit sign above the door. "Mommy," she whispered, her fingers finding the small zipper pocket of my cardigan where the pink ComEd bill was still folded. "Is the road gone now?"
"Yes, bunny," I said, pulling her close against my side as the bus turned west toward the river. "The road is completely clear. We’re all the way home."
