Work Text:
The snow began as they were passing the field where Bart had gone into the ditch.
At first it seemed no more than a few pale grains carried sideways through the afternoon, too light to settle and too scattered to alter the road. One landed on Cindy’s dark sleeve and vanished before she could look at it closely. Another caught in the fur above Nicola’s eyes. Jennifer brushed it away with one gloved finger and glanced toward the low sky.
The clouds had been gathering since the girls left the usual corner. They covered the lakeward horizon in broad grey layers and pressed lower over the bare trees as the afternoon went on, but there had been no urgency in them. The cold was steady rather than severe. The road remained dry, and the girls had walked farther than they had on most winter days, following the mill lane until it joined the field road and then turning back through the quieter edge of town.
Now the air had changed.
The smell came first, faint and clean beneath the smoke from distant chimneys. The wind had softened, but the cold carried differently against their faces. Sound seemed to draw inward. A wagon travelling on the road behind them became muffled before it had gone far, the creak of its wheels fading beneath the first thin cover along the verge.
Cindy looked up.
Several flakes touched her glasses.
“It’s starting.”
Jennifer held out one hand. A flake settled on the dark wool of her glove, showing its branching shape for less than a second before the warmth beneath the cloth softened it.
“Papa thought it would wait until tonight.”
“My father said the same.”
Bart saw the flakes.
He stopped smelling the road and lifted his face. One struck his nose. He jerked his head back, startled, then opened his mouth at the next.
The flake disappeared before he reached it.
Bart stared upward.
Another passed near his muzzle. He snapped at it.
Cindy tightened his lead before he could leap into the road. “It’s only snow.”
Bart opened his mouth again and chased a flake to the left, then another to the right. His feet slipped once on the frozen edge of a rut, but he recovered without noticing.
“He thinks it’s coming for him,” Jennifer said.
“He thinks everything is.”
Nicola lowered her head as the wind moved across the field.
The snow thickened almost without transition. What had been separate white specks became a steady fall, filling the spaces between the girls and the nearest trees. The far side of the field blurred. Brown weeds and broken reeds lost their sharpness as flakes settled across them, gathering along the bowed stems and in the dark depressions left by old rain.
Jennifer shortened Nicola’s lead. The grey dog walked near her leg, ears laid slightly back, her face turned from the wind whenever it rose. Snow rested over the thick fur along her shoulders without melting immediately.
Bart continued trying to catch it.
He sprang at a cluster blown across Cindy’s path and nearly wrapped the lead around her knees.
“Stay down.”
Cindy turned with him, unwound the leather and brought him back to the roadside. Bart shook his head as several flakes struck his ears. Then he raised his face and tried again.
The first white layer began forming over the road.
Their tracks appeared dark behind them, two sets of shoe marks and the uneven lines of the dogs’ paws. As the girls walked, snow gathered within the impressions almost at once, softening their edges.
Jennifer looked back.
The field road had begun disappearing beneath them.
“We should go straight home.”
Cindy nodded.
The Han house was closer from where they stood, though neither girl said so yet. They passed the drainage channel without leaving the firm centre of the road. Its long grass had bent under the wet snow, revealing places that had remained hidden during the autumn. A narrow strip of dark water moved beneath a forming white edge.
Bart turned toward it.
Cindy kept walking. “No.”
He resisted for one step, then followed.
The snow caught in Cindy’s hair where it had loosened beside her glasses. She blinked against the damp flakes striking her lenses. At first they formed tiny round marks that cleared when she moved her face from the wind. Then more gathered. Each one melted into a bead and joined another, leaving pale streaks that turned the road before her into blurred bands of grey and white.
She wiped the lenses with one gloved finger.
The gesture made them worse.
Jennifer noticed Cindy slowing. “Can you see?”
“Yes.”
Cindy stepped around a dark patch she thought was a rut and found only level road beneath it. Bart crossed in front of her, chasing another flake. His shoulder brushed her knee.
She stopped.
Snow gathered on the upper rim of her glasses.
“I can see enough.”
Jennifer looked at the lenses. “They’re wet.”
“I know.”
Cindy took the handkerchief from her coat pocket. The cloth was cold and nearly stiff. She removed her glasses, wiped the first lens and held it briefly toward the light. Snow landed on it before she could finish the second.
Jennifer moved nearer, placing herself between Cindy and the wind.
Cindy turned slightly toward her shelter and dried both lenses again. She replaced the glasses, but within several yards the damp marks had returned.
The flakes were larger now. They came down in soft clusters that clung to sleeves, scarves and the dogs’ backs. The road beyond the next row of trees had become difficult to distinguish from the grass on either side.
Cindy removed her glasses a second time.
She folded them carefully inside her handkerchief and placed them in the deep inner pocket of her coat. Without them, the world softened at once. The trees became dark columns without clear branches. The houses ahead lost their separate windows and doors. Jennifer’s face was visible beside her, pale beneath the snow, but its finer expression had gone.
Cindy held Bart’s lead in her right hand and reached with her left.
Her fingers found Jennifer’s sleeve near the elbow.
Jennifer didn’t look down at the hand or change her pace suddenly. She moved half a step closer and kept her arm steady.
“The road turns after the next tree,” she said.
“I know.”
“There’s ice near the gutter.”
Cindy felt Jennifer guide them toward the centre.
Bart walked ahead until the lead drew tight. Cindy brought him back more by feel than sight.
“Stay close.”
He came reluctantly, distracted by the falling snow. His dark shape moved in and out of clarity before her, mouth opening at flakes she could no longer see individually.
Nicola stayed near Jennifer’s far side. Each time the wind strengthened, she lowered her head and pressed closer to the girl’s skirt. Snow collected along her back until she looked paler than usual, her grey fur broken by a soft white covering.
The girls’ footprints vanished more quickly now. When Cindy looked back, she could see only several dark impressions before the snowfall erased them into the road.
“We should go to my house,” she said.
“Yes.”
Jennifer had already been turning them that way.
They left the field road and entered the first street. Houses gave some shelter from the wind, though the snow continued falling straight and heavy between them. Porch steps whitened. Fence rails took narrow caps. A man carrying a coal scuttle crossed one yard with his head lowered and called for somebody inside to bring in the washing before the line froze.
Bart shook himself.
Snow flew from his fur and struck Cindy’s coat.
“That didn’t help.”
He looked up at her voice.
Jennifer lifted one hand to shield her eyes. “The next crossing is clear.”
Cindy kept her fingers around Jennifer’s sleeve.
The fabric beneath her glove was damp from snow. She could feel Jennifer’s arm moving naturally as they walked, the small shifts of muscle beneath the coat guiding her without pulling. Jennifer didn’t take Cindy’s hand or place it elsewhere. She let Cindy decide how much support she needed.
At the crossing, a truck moved slowly through the thickening fall. Its tyres pressed dark tracks into the white road and threw loose snow toward the curb. Jennifer stopped well before it reached them.
Cindy heard the engine before she could make out the vehicle.
“Wait,” Jennifer said.
They stood with both dogs close.
Bart leaned forward, interested in the movement. Cindy shortened his lead until his collar sat near her glove.
The truck passed.
Its shape faded almost immediately beyond the houses.
They crossed.
The Han street appeared gradually through the snow. Cindy recognized it less by sight than by the position of the road beneath her feet, the slope near one corner and the smell of woodsmoke from a neighbour’s chimney. She counted the gates without moving her lips.
“Two more,” she said.
“One,” Jennifer answered after several steps.
Cindy’s hand tightened slightly on her sleeve.
The Han gate emerged as a dark line beneath a gathering white edge.
Jennifer stopped outside it.
Snow had filled the narrow path beyond, though the deeper places remained visible where the yard had been swept that morning. Cindy released Jennifer’s sleeve long enough to open the latch. Her glove slipped once against the cold metal.
Bart moved toward the gap.
Jennifer caught his lead above Cindy’s hand. “Wait.”
Together they brought the dogs through one at a time. Nicola entered without pulling. Bart attempted to nose the snow piled against the gatepost, then opened his mouth when loose flakes fell from the top rail.
Cindy shut the gate.
The front steps were already white.
She put one hand against the porch post and climbed carefully. Jennifer remained near enough that their sleeves touched once. Bart pulled toward the sheltered space beneath the steps. Nicola followed Cindy directly to the porch, lowering her body from the wind.
At the door, Cindy took out her glasses again.
The lenses had remained dry inside the handkerchief. She put them on and blinked while the house came back into shape before her. Warm light showed through the curtain. Snow softened the lines of Jennifer’s hair and gathered over her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Bart’s muzzle was covered in melting white specks, while Nicola had a small ridge of snow between her ears.
Cindy raised her hand to knock.
The door opened first.
Eun-jung stood inside.
She looked at Cindy’s face, then at Jennifer, then beyond them toward the road disappearing under the storm. Her hand remained on the door for only a moment before she opened it wider.
“Inside.”
Cindy glanced toward the dogs.
Eun-jung looked at them too. “Not through the kitchen.”
“There’s the back entry,” Cindy said.
“Take them around.”
Jennifer stepped down from the porch at once. “I’ll leave Cindy here and go home.”
Eun-jung looked toward the road again.
The snow had thickened enough that the houses across the street appeared grey and indistinct. Wind drove a broad sweep of flakes along the pavement, covering the fresh tracks the girls had made only moments earlier.
“You won’t go now,” she said.
Jennifer stood still.
“My house isn’t far.”
“It is far in this.”
Jennifer glanced toward Cindy.
Cindy didn’t speak for her mother. She stood beside the open door with snow melting from the hem of her coat and waited.
Eun-jung drew the door wider. “Bring the dogs to the rear.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jennifer said.
She led them back down the steps.
Cindy followed along the side path, using the house to shelter her face from the wind. The rear entry had a low roof and an outer door opening into a small enclosed space before the kitchen. It was used for boots, tools, empty baskets and the things a household needed near but not inside its main rooms. A wooden bench stood against one wall. Hooks had been fixed above it, and an old mat covered most of the floor.
Cindy opened the door.
Bart pushed forward.
Jennifer caught him by the collar before his paws crossed the threshold. “Wait.”
He stood with his chest against her knee, staring into the dim entry as though it contained every good thing he had ever imagined.
Nicola remained behind.
Eun-jung opened the inner kitchen door and placed two folded cloths on the bench.
“The dogs stay here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jennifer said.
“They will be warmer than outside.”
“Yes.”
Eun-jung looked at Bart. “That one will try the door.”
“He will.”
“Then the latch stays shut.”
Jennifer brought Bart inside under control and kept hold until Cindy had closed the outer door behind Nicola. The sudden shelter changed the sound of the storm. Snow still tapped softly against the small window, but the wind became a low movement beyond the walls.
Bart shook himself.
Water and snow struck the door, bench and both girls’ coats.
Cindy closed her eyes.
Jennifer tightened her lips.
Bart finished and looked at them.
“You could’ve waited,” Cindy said.
His tail moved.
Nicola shook once too, though more neatly, sending only a light spray from her ruff.
Eun-jung remained at the kitchen door. “Dry them before they wet the whole floor.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Cindy took one of the cloths. Jennifer reached for the other.
“You first,” Eun-jung said to the girls.
“We’ll do the dogs,” Cindy answered.
Her mother looked at their wet coats and then at the animals. “Quickly.”
Cindy crouched beside Bart.
The cloth was an old piece of towel, faded and rough from many washings. She pressed it over his head and rubbed behind his ears. Bart pushed forward into it, perhaps believing the activity had been arranged for his enjoyment.
Jennifer knelt beside Nicola.
The grey dog stood patiently while Jennifer wiped snow from her back and squeezed water from the longer fur beneath her chest. Nicola lowered her head when the towel passed over her ears but didn’t move away.
Bart tried to bite the cloth.
Cindy pulled it from his mouth. “No.”
He opened his jaws at the next corner.
She moved it beyond reach. “You aren’t helping.”
Jennifer worked slowly along Nicola’s side. Snow had melted deep into the thick coat, leaving the outer fur damp and cold. She pressed rather than rubbed where the hair was longest, drawing out the water without tangling it.
Bart turned toward the kitchen door.
The inner latch hadn’t been fastened yet.
He saw the narrow opening.
Cindy caught his collar as he moved.
“Stay here.”
Bart leaned toward the smell of the kitchen. Warm air entered through the crack, carrying rice, cooked vegetables and something toasted from the stove.
His nose lifted.
Cindy pulled him back. “No.”
Eun-jung closed the inner door firmly from the other side.
Bart looked at the wood.
Jennifer glanced toward Cindy. “He knows there’s food.”
“He always knows.”
They continued drying him.
One cloth became dark and wet almost immediately. Snowmelt mixed with the dust already gathered in Bart’s coat, leaving broad grey marks across the towel. Cindy turned it, found a cleaner section and rubbed his shoulders.
Bart sat down.
His wet tail swept over the mat and struck Jennifer’s shoe.
“You need to stand.”
Cindy put one hand beneath his chest and encouraged him upward. Bart remained seated until Jennifer took the second cloth and held it near his face.
He stood at once.
“You traded him,” Cindy said.
“He only thinks I did.”
Bart reached for the dry cloth.
Jennifer moved it behind her back.
Cindy used the opportunity to dry his chest and front legs. The first towel had become too wet to absorb more. She squeezed it over the mat, but only a little water came free.
“He’s soiled this one.”
“He’ll soil the other.”
“We have to finish.”
They changed cloths.
Bart accepted several firm strokes down his back, then twisted and seized the lower edge. Cindy kept hold.
“Let go.”
His eyes brightened.
Jennifer reached for the collar before he could begin backing around the small room.
Bart pulled once.
The towel stretched between him and Cindy.
“There isn’t room for this.”
Jennifer held the collar firmly. “Bart.”
He turned his head toward her voice.
Cindy took the cloth from his loosened jaws.
“You’ve already ruined one.”
The first towel lay crumpled near the bench, dark with water, road dust and the grey marks from his paws. Cindy placed the second beyond his reach and wiped the remaining damp from his belly.
Nicola stood near the outer door, nearly dry. She watched Bart without participating.
When Cindy finished, she ran one hand over his back. The fur remained cool but no longer dripped.
“That’s enough.”
Jennifer checked his legs. “His paws.”
Bart lifted one before she touched it.
Cindy dried each paw in turn. He attempted to mouth the cloth once more but released it when she held his face gently away.
Nicola required only a final pass beneath her neck. Jennifer folded the cleaner portion of the towel and wiped the moisture from her paws.
The inner door opened.
Eun-jung looked at the mat, the wet cloths and Bart standing inches from the threshold.
“Are they finished?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jennifer said.
Eun-jung pointed to a short length of cord fixed near the bench. “Tie him there.”
Bart looked at the cord.
Jennifer fastened his lead through it, leaving enough room for him to stand, sit and lie down but not enough to reach the inner door. She checked the repaired clasp and the knot twice.
Nicola didn’t need tying. She settled near the bench as soon as Cindy placed one cloth beneath her.
Cindy removed her glasses and wiped away the damp gathered along the frames.
“Come in,” Eun-jung said.
Cindy entered first.
Jennifer remained in the rear entry.
She brushed melting snow from the sleeves of her coat and looked toward the hooks above the bench, uncertain whether they were for household garments or only work things.
Eun-jung waited at the kitchen door.
“You may put your coat there.”
Jennifer looked at the hook she indicated. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She removed her scarf first, folded it once and placed it over her arm. Then she unbuttoned her coat and lifted it carefully from her shoulders. Snowmelt had darkened the upper cloth, and dampness marked the hem. She hung it where she had been shown, making sure it didn’t touch another garment.
Cindy hung her own coat beside it.
Jennifer removed her overshoes and lined them against the wall. She didn’t step farther until Eun-jung pointed to the mat inside the kitchen.
“Shoes there.”
Jennifer wiped the soles carefully before entering.
The kitchen was warmer than the Fischer house’s, though not larger. Heat came from a black stove near the inner wall and from a lamp set on the table despite the daylight. The falling snow had darkened the windows enough to make the room feel nearer evening. Steam clouded the lower part of one pane.
Jennifer stood just inside.
She didn’t let her eyes travel around the room in a broad examination. She saw what lay naturally before her: the table, the stove, the narrow shelves and Cindy’s broom resting upright in a corner. Several photographs stood along a cabinet beyond the table. One showed figures in formal clothes, though Jennifer didn’t look long enough to distinguish faces. A small arrangement occupied a shelf near the wall, with a dark bowl, folded cloth and objects whose purpose she didn’t know.
She didn’t ask.
The smell from the stove was unfamiliar in parts and familiar in others. Rice, cabbage, garlic and something sharp warmed the room. Jennifer accepted it as the smell of another household at the end of an afternoon and made no remark.
Cindy picked up a towel from the back of a chair.
Her mother held out another.
“Seung-hui.”
Jennifer turned toward Cindy.
The name reached her without surprise because Eun-jung’s hand, gaze and voice all went to the same person. Cindy took the towel.
“Yes, Mama.”
Jennifer looked at her only as long as she would have if Eun-jung had said Cindy. Then she accepted the towel offered to her.
“Dry your hair,” Eun-jung said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jennifer pressed the cloth over the loose parts of her braid. She didn’t ask about the name. Cindy didn’t explain it.
They dried their sleeves, faces and hair near the stove. Cindy removed her glasses again and polished them carefully, holding them toward the lamp before returning them to her face. Jennifer unfastened the end of her braid, squeezed water from it and tied it again with the damp ribbon.
Bart scratched once against the rear door.
Eun-jung looked toward the sound.
“He’s tied,” Jennifer said.
“He wants the kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He won’t have it.”
“No.”
Nicola made no sound.
Eun-jung placed a kettle on the stove. “Sit.”
Jennifer looked toward Cindy.
Cindy took the chair nearest the rear door. Jennifer sat beside her only after Eun-jung indicated the second chair.
An exercise book lay open on the far side of the table.
Cindy had been working in it before the walk. Arithmetic filled the visible page in neat columns, each sum written carefully beneath the previous one. A line of English handwriting crossed the top. Beneath it, in another hand, had been written a sequence Jennifer couldn’t read.
Two names appeared on the inside cover where the book folded back.
Cindy.
Below it, written more carefully and in a different hand, Seung-hui.
Jennifer’s eyes rested there only because the book lay directly before her. She recognized the second name from Eun-jung’s voice and then looked away toward Cindy.
Cindy had noticed.
“It’s mine,” she said.
“The book?”
“The name too.”
Jennifer nodded. “All right.”
Cindy watched her for a moment through the clear lenses. “My parents use it.”
Jennifer folded the towel over her lap. “It sounds nice.”
Cindy lowered her eyes to the exercise book. “Papa wrote it there.”
Jennifer looked once more at the two names, not comparing them or deciding which belonged more truly to the girl beside her. They occupied the same cover. That seemed sufficient.
Eun-jung set two cups on the table.
The drink inside was hot and pale, with steam rising from it. Jennifer waited until Cindy lifted hers before touching the cup.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Eun-jung sat across from them.
Outside, snow struck the window in soft wet taps. The view beyond had become nearly white. Only the nearest fence and the black branches above it remained visible.
“You went too far,” Eun-jung said.
Cindy held both hands around her cup. “It wasn’t snowing when we turned back.”
“The sky was low this morning.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
Eun-jung looked at Jennifer.
Jennifer didn’t place the fault on Cindy or try to excuse the decision with the weather forecast. “We should’ve turned sooner.”
Eun-jung considered her.
“Yes,” she said.
Jennifer lowered her head slightly. “I’m sorry.”
Cindy looked toward her.
Eun-jung took a small sip from her cup. “You came to the nearer house.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That was right.”
Jennifer nodded.
No more was said about blame.
The warmth gradually reached Jennifer’s hands. She held the cup without drinking too quickly, aware of the different balance of the chair, the small scrape her shoe made against the floor and the household’s quiet around her. The room didn’t feel hostile, but it wasn’t hers. She remained careful without becoming stiff.
Bart scratched again.
Then came the sound of the rear latch shifting.
Cindy stood.
“He can’t open it tied.”
Jennifer rose too.
The inner door moved inward by an inch.
Bart’s nose appeared through the gap.
Cindy caught the door before it opened farther. “Bart.”
His muzzle pushed against the wood.
Jennifer reached past her and closed her hand around the collar. The dog had worked enough slack into the lead to reach the threshold. He leaned toward the kitchen, inhaling deeply.
“No.”
His front paw crossed onto the kitchen floor.
Jennifer guided it back.
Bart resisted, body low and determined, his nose pointing toward the stove.
Cindy pushed the door nearly shut around Jennifer’s arm. “He smells supper.”
“He always smells supper.”
Together they returned him to the bench and shortened the lead by passing it once more through the cord.
Bart looked at them with open disappointment.
“You stay here.”
Nicola lay nearby with her head on her paws. Her eyes moved from Bart to the girls and then closed again.
Cindy touched the grey dog’s shoulder before going back inside.
Bart gave one quiet whine.
Jennifer didn’t respond.
At the table, Eun-jung had moved the exercise book away from the wet towels. She placed a small plate between the girls with several pieces of something cut into neat rectangles.
Jennifer waited.
“Eat,” Eun-jung said.
“Thank you.”
Cindy took one.
Jennifer followed.
The food was soft and faintly sweet, with a texture she hadn’t expected. She ate it without stopping to inspect it or asking what it contained. When she finished, she placed her hands around the warm cup again.
“Do you like it?” Eun-jung asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What is it?”
Jennifer looked toward the empty space on the plate, then at Eun-jung. “I don’t know.”
The woman’s expression altered very slightly.
“Rice cake,” Cindy said.
Jennifer nodded. “It’s good.”
Eun-jung took another piece herself.
The afternoon dimmed further. Snow continued covering the yard, building along the lower window and narrowing the visible world. Jennifer watched only when the weather required attention. She didn’t study the photographs, though one stood close enough for her to see a younger Eun-jung beside a man she presumed was Cindy’s father. She didn’t ask about the writing on a calendar or the framed paper near the cabinet.
Cindy opened her exercise book after the towels had been removed.
“I didn’t finish these.”
“You can,” Jennifer said.
Cindy looked at the arithmetic. “You came to walk.”
“We already did.”
The answer satisfied her.
She took up the pencil.
Jennifer sat beside her while she finished the final row of sums. The figures were more advanced than some Brandon had given Jennifer, though familiar enough that she could follow the method. She didn’t lean over or correct. When Cindy paused over one division, Jennifer kept her eyes on the window until the pencil moved again.
Eun-jung worked near the stove.
The ordinary sounds of preparation filled the room: a knife against a board, the shifting of a pot, water poured and a cupboard closing. Bart settled at last in the rear entry. The metal tag on his collar touched the floor once and then remained quiet.
Nicola appeared at the inner doorway.
The door had been left open by a narrow amount for warmth to reach the entry. Nicola stood there without crossing. Her head was low, her body still.
Cindy looked toward her mother.
Eun-jung followed her gaze.
Nicola waited.
After several seconds Eun-jung moved one hand toward the floor beside Cindy’s chair. “There.”
Nicola entered.
She crossed the kitchen slowly, smelling the mat but not the cupboards or table. She came to Cindy and lay near the chair, fitting her body close to the girl’s feet without touching the exercise book or disturbing the work.
Cindy lowered one hand and rested it against Nicola’s neck.
Jennifer looked toward the rear entry.
Bart remained tied.
“He stays there,” Eun-jung said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cindy finished the sums and turned the book so her mother could see. Eun-jung checked each line with a pencil, marked one answer and returned the page.
Cindy examined the error.
Jennifer didn’t look until Cindy shifted the book toward the centre.
“I carried the one twice,” Cindy said.
“Yes.”
Jennifer traced the column without touching it. “Here.”
Cindy erased the number and corrected it.
The use of Seung-hui didn’t return for some time. When it did, Eun-jung called from the stove without looking around.
“Seung-hui, bring the smaller bowl.”
Cindy rose immediately.
Jennifer continued sitting. Her attention followed Cindy naturally, not because the name had become a curiosity but because it belonged to the girl crossing the room. Cindy took a bowl from the shelf, passed it to her mother and returned.
Jennifer looked at her as she sat.
Cindy folded her hands over the closed exercise book.
“You don’t have to use it,” she said quietly.
Jennifer understood. “Do you want me to?”
Cindy considered the question.
“Cindy’s easier outside.”
Jennifer nodded. “Then Cindy.”
There was no disappointment in it.
Cindy looked down at Nicola’s fur. “Seung-hui’s mine too.”
“I know.”
The answer came without solemnity. Jennifer reached for her cup and found it had cooled enough to drink more easily.
The front door opened shortly before the snow began to lessen.
Cold air entered the house, followed by the sound of a man removing his boots. Eun-jung went toward the front room. Cindy straightened in her chair.
Her father came into the kitchen carrying snow across the shoulders of his dark coat. He was of medium height, with wire-framed spectacles and hair flattened beneath his hat. A parcel rested beneath one arm. He looked first at Cindy, then at Jennifer, and then toward Nicola near the chair.
Cindy stood.
“Papa, this is Jennifer.”
Jennifer rose as well and lowered her head slightly.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Min-jae set the parcel on the counter. “You were caught out.”
“Yes, sir.”
He removed his coat and hung it near the front room. “The road is poor.”
Jennifer looked toward the window. The flakes had grown smaller, though they still fell steadily. “I was going to walk home when it eases.”
Min-jae glanced toward Eun-jung.
“She can’t go alone,” Eun-jung said.
“I’ll take her.”
Jennifer began to object. “You’ve only come in.”
“I’ve been walking already.”
He opened the cabinet beneath the wall shelf and brought out another lamp. After checking the oil, he lit it and placed it on the table. Its warmer glow filled the part of the kitchen that the first lamp had left dim.
Snowmelt marked the shoulders of his shirt where the coat had pressed against it. He stood near the stove long enough to warm his hands, then looked through the rear doorway.
“Both dogs?”
“Yes, sir,” Jennifer said.
Bart rose at the sound of another voice. His tail struck the bench.
Min-jae looked at the lead tied near him. “That one went into the ditch.”
Cindy glanced at Jennifer.
“Yes, sir.”
“He is clean today.”
“Mostly.”
Bart’s paws remained grey from the road despite the towels.
Min-jae’s expression didn’t quite become a smile. “Mostly.”
He ate something standing near the stove while Jennifer put on her scarf and coat. Eun-jung checked the weather twice through the window and then brought out a second towel to wipe the remaining damp from Jennifer’s sleeves.
“You come another day without snow,” she said.
Jennifer looked at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
The words weren’t an invitation to presume. They weren’t a refusal either.
Cindy put on her coat.
Her mother looked toward her. “You stay.”
“I’m only going to the gate.”
“The gate.”
“Yes, Mama.”
They returned to the rear entry.
Bart became nearly unmanageable when Jennifer untied him. He pushed his head beneath her arm, shook once and turned toward the kitchen.
Cindy blocked him. “Outside.”
Jennifer opened the rear door.
Cold air and white light entered together. Snow had covered the yard deeply enough to hide the swept path. Bart plunged into it, front legs disappearing nearly to the knee. He stopped in surprise, then bounded forward.
Jennifer kept hold.
Nicola stepped into the snow more carefully. The first drift touched her chest. She lowered her head against the remaining wind and followed.
Cindy came as far as the front gate while Min-jae waited near the porch steps without an umbrella. He had put on his coat and hat again, though the shoulders were still damp. Snow landed there and remained.
Jennifer checked Bart’s clasp before they left.
Cindy watched her. “It’s sound.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll bring him home before another ditch.”
“There aren’t any on the short road.”
“He’ll find something.”
Bart opened his mouth at a falling flake.
Jennifer tightened the lead.
Cindy rubbed one hand along Nicola’s head. The grey dog pressed briefly against her leg and then returned to Jennifer’s side.
“I’ll see you,” Cindy said.
“Yes.”
Jennifer lowered her head to Min-jae. “Thank you for walking with me.”
He opened the gate. “The road is the same for both of us.”
Cindy remained inside the yard.
Min-jae closed the gate behind himself and Jennifer. Bart looked back toward Cindy until the falling snow and the angle of the fence hid her.
They took the road toward Jennifer’s house.
The storm had softened into a gentler fall. The wind no longer drove the flakes against their faces, and the nearest streetlamps shone clearly through the white air. Min-jae carried no umbrella. He kept his gloved hands in his coat pockets except when a deeper patch required him to steady himself along a fence.
Jennifer walked beside him, Nicola nearest his side and Bart on the outside.
Min-jae didn’t hurry.
Bart stopped at the first buried post.
Only the top remained visible above the snow. He smelled it thoroughly, pushed his nose beneath the white cap and sneezed.
Jennifer drew him onward. “Come.”
Min-jae waited without looking impatiently toward the road ahead.
At the next yard, Bart found tracks left by another dog before the snow deepened. He followed them toward a gate, losing and rediscovering the scent beneath the fresh layer.
Jennifer shortened his lead. “We shouldn’t keep stopping.”
Min-jae looked at Bart. “He has work.”
Jennifer glanced at him.
“Not useful work,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean he knows.”
Bart moved forward again.
Min-jae kept his pace slow enough that Jennifer never had to pull the dog sharply to catch up. When Nicola paused to shake snow from her face, he stopped as well. He didn’t fill the walk with questions about Jennifer’s family, lessons or friendship with Cindy. The quiet between them remained practical rather than strained.
At the church road, he tested the snow near the gutter with one boot before directing Jennifer toward the firmer centre.
“A truck packed it here,” he said.
Jennifer followed his steps.
Bart attempted to bite a ridge of snow kicked up by the tyres. It collapsed in his mouth and fell across his paws.
“He’s been doing that all afternoon,” Jennifer said.
“He will learn snow doesn’t stay caught.”
“He may keep trying.”
Min-jae looked toward the dog. “That also may be true.”
Jennifer’s house came into view beyond the final stand of trees. Warm light showed through the kitchen curtain. Smoke rose above the roof and disappeared into the pale sky.
Bart recognized the gate and pulled.
Jennifer held him back until she reached it properly.
April opened the door before they climbed the steps.
Her coat had been thrown over her shoulders without fastening, and concern had sharpened her face. She looked first at Jennifer and then at the man beside her.
“Mama, this is Cindy’s father,” Jennifer said. “The snow came while we were walking. Mrs. Han had us inside, and he walked me home.”
April came down one step.
“Thank you.”
Min-jae lowered his head slightly. “She came to the nearest house. The road was worse before.”
April looked at Jennifer’s wet hem, the snow on the dogs and the fog beginning around the edges of her daughter’s breath.
“You did right,” she said. Then to Min-jae, “Please come in and warm yourself.”
He looked back toward the road he had just travelled. “My family is waiting.”
“Then take our thanks with you.”
“I will.”
Jennifer stood near the gate with Bart still investigating the snow piled against the fence. Nicola moved toward the porch but waited for her.
Min-jae turned to Jennifer. “Next time the sky lowers, go home before the first flake.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked at Bart opening his mouth toward another one. “Even if somebody objects.”
Jennifer followed his gaze. “Yes, sir.”
Min-jae started back toward the Han house.
April remained on the step until he had reached the corner. Jennifer stood beside her with both dogs close, watching his dark coat move slowly through the easing snow.
Then April opened the door wider.
“Inside. All three of you.”
Bart surged toward the warmth.
Jennifer caught his collar before he crossed with snow still packed around his paws.
“We have to dry them first.”
April looked at the dog, at her daughter’s damp braid and then at Nicola waiting quietly behind them.
“You’ve already done some drying.”
“Bart needed more.”
“He usually does.”
Jennifer guided both dogs toward the rear entry.
Behind them, the snow continued falling lightly over the road, filling Min-jae’s footprints as he made his way home.