He awoke from a sleep that was not a dream. There had been no images, no events, just a feeling, an exclamation point, an imperative: he had forgotten something important, something crucially important that he must take care of. His life depended on it. But what was it? He was so sleepy. Not cold anymore, just so sleepy. He opened his eyes. The wind-up light had almost run down, but its glow was enough. She was turned, facing him, eyes closed, lashes and eyebrows frosted from their breath. How had she gotten there? It made no sense for her to turn away from the warmth of his body. He tried to remember. So sleepy. The boys had come to them, shivering, and she had turned to make room, and the boys had tucked down deep inside the bag between them, and they had all four shivered together. He could see the tops of their heads, round shadows between them. Were they shivering now? He couldn't feel anything.
It took an effort of will to keep his eyes open, to focus on her face, frosted to a pale palette of whites and blues and pinks in the dim white light. He reached out to put a hand on her cheek. A disembodied, bluish hand, his and yet not his, poked clumsily at her face, fingers half curled in repose. The thumb snagged the corner of her mouth before the knuckles came to rest on her cheek. He couldn't feel it. He tried to flex and extend his fingers but nothing happened. Afraid he would hurt her, he withdrew his hand and it disappeared into the dark.
She stirred. Her face scrunched where he had touched her and her eyes opened, at first unfocused, unseeing. Her brows knitted. She blinked and stared and finally focused on his face, recognizing him.
"Hi," she said, slowly, half a whisper. And she smiled at him, the old smile. It was like the sun.
