I just want some sleep.

  That was all I could think about as I slouched behind the bar. Not the endless list of things I needed to do, not the textbook I was pretending I’d read, not even the snowstorm raging outside. Just the sweet fantasy of fusing with my mattress and drooling on my pillow until time gave up on me.

  “See you, Mari,” my coworker called on her way out.

  You’d think being Christmas, I’d be off. Or, at the very least, the blizzard warning might’ve convinced my boss to close early. But no. He was too obsessed with collecting every last penny his customers still clung to. Our wellbeing was just another liability he didn’t want to get sued over. That was the extent of his compassion.

  The clock ticked on. My coworker was gone. The store was silent. No customers. Just me and the wind howling outside like the ghost of capitalism.

  Maybe I should close up early.

  I pulled out my phone—twenty percent battery. Again. No matter how often I charged it, or how disciplined I was with screen time, it always found its way to the red. I blamed the phone company and their secret plot to get me to buy a newer model. I refused. I was already losing enough to capitalism.

  As I debated whether wasting more battery was worth the entertainment, I noticed the top corner of the screen.

  No signal.

  Of course. Just perfect. Might as well cue the horror movie soundtrack now.

  With a sigh, I ducked under the counter and fished out my textbook. Amazing how my brain works overtime to avoid doing anything productive. I could study a week before an exam—but no. I wait until I’m down to the final hours and then go into full panic cram mode. And still, somehow, I manage to pick the wrong answers every single time. My gut has the accuracy of a blindfolded raccoon throwing darts.

  Worse, I only seem to care after the test. Like I subconsciously enjoy absorbing failure just to spite myself.

  I dropped the textbook on the counter with a quiet thud and flipped to something that wouldn’t completely fry my brain.

  Spinal columns, skulls, the cerebrum… Sure. Why not.

  Yes, I gave in to the parental dream of becoming a doctor. No, I don’t think I’ll make it. And yes, it probably is a waste of my parents’ money. But for some reason, my swirling anxiety keeps me going like a hamster on a caffeine drip. It’s not the healthiest motivation, but it works. Kind of.

  Some days, like today, it’s weirdly quiet in my head. No immediate fires to put out. No surprise tests. No Hank Green lectures at 2 a.m. dragging me out of a pit of despair. Honestly, Hank deserves an invitation to my future wedding.

  Then the bell on the front door jingled.

  Usually, that sound would stress me out enough to age a year. But tonight, it was a relief. A sign of life. Of proof that the world was still turning beyond this snow-blasted bar.

  “Good evening,” I chirped, snapping the book shut and hiding it. “My name’s Marina, I’ll be your server for—”

  My stomach dropped.

  The figure that walked in wasn’t just a customer. It was like a shadow had unzipped itself from the night and wandered inside. Brown and white layers of soaked fabric clung to him, all puffed and crusted with snow. I couldn’t see much of his face, just the weight of it—like something ancient and tired dragged behind him.

  Every hair on my body stood on end. My legs locked. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I wasn’t even sure I was blinking.

  He walked forward, slowly, like each step had to be thought through.

  Was this a robbery? Was I going to die in a winter snowstorm behind a bar counter with unstudied notes on spinal cords?

  “Water,” he rasped, his voice barely more than gravel and ice.

  His hand—a pale thing, too pale—crept out of the shadows of his coat and landed on the counter.

  “Please…” he whispered again.

  Something snapped inside me. I sucked in a shaky breath and pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heart trying to punch its way out.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Could you repeat that?”

  “Wa—” he coughed. “Water.”

  Isn’t that outside?

  For some reason, my brain chose that moment to offer sarcasm. He’s soaked in snow and asking for water? Just pop outside and scoop some up, sir.

  “Oh my god,” I muttered. “Water. Right. Of course.”

  In an instant, I scrambled behind the counter like I was being timed. You’d think after hours of praying for a customer, I’d handle it better than accusing him of being a cryptid. But no. Leave it to me to freak out and delay giving a half-frozen man a glass of water.

  God—did I say that thing about the water out loud?

  I returned with the glass. “H–Here you go, sir. Sorry for the delay. Would you like anything else?”

  He reached for it. Or tried to.

  His fingers didn’t work.

  Under the dim lights, they glistened oddly yellow—stiff, unresponsive, almost waxy. I wasn’t sure if it was frostbite or just the awful lighting Jim insisted we didn’t need to fix.

  “Do you need help?” I asked gently, still watching his hands.

  He said nothing, just kept fumbling like a puppet with tangled strings.

  “You can warm up here. Even though the kitchen’s down, I can make you some soup,” I offered.

  I don’t know why I was trying so hard. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. But something about him tugged at a place I didn’t recognize. A place beneath all the noise in my head.

  Before I could offer again, the cup slipped.

  It hit the floor with a shattering crash.

  He flinched like something broke in him too.

  “I’ll clean that up,” I said quickly, moving around the counter. “Please don’t move. I don’t want you getting cut.”

  Up close, I realized how tall he was. Even hunched over and trembling, he towered over me. He looked like he’d walked through hell just to sit here.

  And now he was going to walk back out into it.

  He moved.

  Not far. Just a small, defeated shift toward the door.

  No, no, no.

  “Wait—please, stay. It’s on the house!”

  The words tumbled out of me before I could think. I didn’t want him to go. It wasn’t just the storm. It wasn’t just the guilt. There was something in the way he carried himself—like a walking bruise—that told me he wouldn’t survive out there. And maybe, selfishly, I didn’t want to be the last person to see him alive.

  But I couldn’t stop him.

  He shuffled away without a word. The same way he came in. Like a ghost that never expected to be noticed.

  The door shut behind him, soft and final.

  My heart didn’t race anymore. It sank. All the way down. Heavy like stone. It was guilt again, but sharper this time. Less anxious, more accusing.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I stared at the broken glass. The puddle of untouched water. The outline of his hand still faint on the counter.

  You should’ve tried harder.

  You should’ve done something.

  What if I find him on the road later? What if he doesn’t make it? What if—

  The lights flickered.

  Okay, I get it. Thanks.

  My gaze drifted to the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes of spiraling.

  No one else was coming in. I knew that. Jim could deal.

  I grabbed my coat, gloves, scarf—everything that promised warmth—and started prepping for my grand exit into the frozen apocalypse. Once the bar was passably clean and locked up, I stepped outside and immediately regretted all of my life choices.

  Cold. It was violently cold.

  Like, slap-you-in-the-face-with-an-icicle cold.

  My fingers fumbled in my pockets for my keys as the wind howled through me like I wasn’t even there. I clicked the fob, saw my car lights blink, and forced my legs to obey.

  What was Jim thinking making me work in this? It’s World War III out here, and I’m expected to serve a perfectly crafted hot chocolate?

  By the time I slammed myself into the driver’s seat, I was halfway frozen and questioning everything.

  “I hope he’s okay,” I mumbled, rubbing my hands together. The heater wheezed to life, groaning like it hated me personally.

  “We got this, baby,” I told my car, giving the dashboard a soft pat. “Nice and easy home, alright?”

  The ice on the windows began to melt. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  Once I had enough visibility to drive without being arrested—or, more likely, skidding into a ditch—I pulled out and hit the road.

  Everything outside was black and white. Snow and dark. Ice and void.

  The hazards clicked a rhythm. Steady. Hypnotic. I bobbed my head to it like it was a beat drop.

  “Who was in the studio?” I joked to myself.

  But just as I got into the groove, my tires slipped.

  “Oh, God!”

  My car fishtailed before correcting itself, and I slowed down to the pace of a cautious grandma with trust issues.

  I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I let it out in a long, trembling huff.

  I didn’t want to die out here. I hadn’t even gotten a good life insurance policy yet. Or truly experienced depression. I heard it gets better with age—like taxes and caffeine addiction.

  Then I saw it.

  A lump. Dark and low, on the side of the road.

  My heart thudded. Was it an animal?

  As I squinted, it shifted.

  Oh no.

  Something—someone—was moving.

  I didn’t even think. My foot hovered, but I didn’t brake. Instinct screamed don’t brake on ice, and for once, I listened to it.

  The car swerved slightly around the figure, wheels humming over the slick. Once I stopped safely, I threw it in park and leaned forward, eyes wide, hand clutching my chest again like it was a panic button.

  “Did I just kill a deer?” I whispered. “Please, no.”

  But when I glanced in the rearview mirror, what I saw wasn’t a deer.

  It was him.

  The man from the bar.

  Still wrapped in that heavy coat, still walking—if you could call it that. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t seem to notice the car at all. Just kept moving, arms locked around himself like he was the only thing holding himself together.

  My hand moved on its own.

  “E–Excuse me!”

  And somehow—somehow—I convinced an absolute stranger to get in my car in under sixty seconds.

  Do I regret this? Yes.

  Am I proud? Also yes.

  How do you think I managed to keep my GPA above sea level after bombing so many tests? This—this is talent.

  Misused talent, sure. But talent nonetheless.

  He hesitated at first.

  Arms still wrapped around himself like armor, eyes barely registering me through the frostbite and exhaustion. I opened the passenger door anyway, heat spilling out like a promise.

  “Please,” I said, softer this time. “You’ll freeze out here.”

  It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t bravery. It was instinct.

  He didn’t argue. Just looked at the open door like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it. Then, slowly—achingly—he got in.

  He sat stiffly, limbs curled inward. Shivering hard. Breathing like it hurt.

  And I—like the very responsible stranger I am—started peeling off my outer layers.

  “Y–You—” he started to protest, coughing mid-sentence. “I… I’m a man. You shouldn’t—”

  “Shh,” I hushed. “You’re a human being who’s about to become an ice sculpture.”

  I stripped off my coat, scarf, and hat, and started layering them over him. He flinched at the warmth like it burned. His hands were still shaking.

  “Give me your hands,” I whispered, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

  When he didn’t move, I reached gently and took them myself.

  Cold. Hard. Almost waxy at the fingertips.

  I remembered somewhere—Hank Green, probably—that you’re not supposed to rub frostbitten skin. So I tucked his hands under my arms, pressing them against my sides like I could transfer my life into him through sheer stubbornness.

  “I know it hurts now,” I said, voice thick, “but it’s going to be okay.”

  He let out a pained breath and slumped slightly in the seat, head resting back against the cushion.

  “I’ve got soup,” I offered, desperate to fill the silence. “Back home. I can heat it up for you.”

  He didn’t respond.

  I started to say more, but then—

  “No.”

  His voice cracked like something breaking inside him. A rejection of something heavier than just soup or help.

  “I’ll pay,” I blurted. “The hospital. I’ll cover it. Just let me take you—”

  He shook his head.

  A gentle, final no. Like it was something he’d already accepted. Like he wasn’t asking for permission to die out here—he was just trying to do it quietly.

  But I wasn’t letting that happen.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “No hospital. But we’re going somewhere warm.”

  He didn’t fight me again.

  I checked his hands—color was returning. I slid gloves over them, adjusted the heat, and pulled the car into drive.

  The rest of the ride was quiet.

  Not awkward—just thick. Like the kind of silence that means something is breaking inside both of us, but we’re too tired to name it.

  Every few seconds, I glanced at him, unsure if he was asleep or fading.

  Some part of me thought: He’s safe now.

  Another part whispered: You have no idea who this man is.

  I tightened my grip on the wheel.

  Just get him somewhere safe. Then figure it out.

  The man passed out ten minutes before we got to the house— amazing timing, I know.

  At first, I thought he’d just fallen asleep—until he slumped forward so hard that his forehead nearly hit the dash. I caught him by the shoulder with one hand and steered with the other, all while trying not to hyperventilate. The car heater hummed full blast, but he was still cold. Too cold.

  Pulling into the driveway felt like crashing a stolen getaway car. My whole body was buzzing. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It didn’t help that my parents’ porch light flickered like we lived on the set of a low-budget horror film. I parked and stared straight ahead, letting the silence catch up to me.

  He was still breathing. Shallow, but there.

  “You’re okay,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure who I was talking to—him or myself.

  Then came the problem.

  Getting him inside.

  The snow was knee-deep on the porch, the wind yelling at me to give up now, and this man—this six-foot-tall, possibly hypothermic stranger—was completely dead weight.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered, dragging one arm over my shoulder. “Why didn’t I leave you at the bar? Why am I doing this? Why are you so heavy?”

  He didn’t respond, obviously, because he was unconscious. And possibly dying. But still, it felt rude.

  The porch steps were the final boss. I could practically see its health status looming tauntingly above. Halfway up, I slipped and nearly brought us both down in a graceless heap of limbs and regret. By the time we got inside, my back hurt, my legs were jelly, and my coat was soaked through.

  The screen door slammed open behind me, howling in protest.

  “I could’ve died!” I hissed at it. “Stupid wind! Stupid everything!”

  I don’t know why I expected an apology. Nothing was cooperating tonight—not the weather, not my phone, not my good sense. All I wanted was to clock out and curl up in bed with a microwaved meal and an unhealthy attachment to fictional characters. But no. Now I was hosting the human embodiment of a cautionary tale in my living room.

  No, scratch that. Not the living room. That was too risky.

  My parents were out of town for vacation, but I still didn’t want to explain why there was a half-frozen man napping on their throw pillows. And there was no way I was leaving him near the front door. Which left one place.

  The basement.

  Cue internal screaming.