IF YOU'RE COLD, THEY'RE COLD

Mommy. It's cold.

The child's voice echoes from behind the thick, wooden door, through the foyer and into the living room, permeating the sound of the crackling fire, the screaming wind encircling the house, and the rattling of the snow caked windows.

Elizabeth rises from her armchair.

"Where are you going?" Henry asks.

"It's our boy," Elizabeth answers, looking at Henry with confused and sunken eyes.

"Elizabeth." Henry says her name in tender firmness. "Our son is gone. Whatever is out there, it's not our Thomas."

Mommy. It's cold.

"Don't you recognize our son's voice? How can we leave him out there?" Elizabeth pleads.

"We can. And we will. Because it's not him."

"You are a cruel, cruel man."

"Why? Because I have accepted the loss of our son?"

"You don't understand a mother's grief."

"Perhaps not. But do you think that the loss of him has not broken me? Or that I don't long to have our son back?"

"I've prayed every night that God would return him to us." Elizabeth's shoulders sink.

"If whatever's out there is a response to prayer, it wasn't God who answered."

"You're right." Elizabeth nods, walks to the whiskey decanter, pours a drink, and hands it to Henry.

"Thank you." Henry drinks, not tasting what Elizabeth added, and is soon unconscious.

Frigid wind passes through her useless shawl as Elizabeth opens the door.

She looks down at the small, hideous form grinning up at her with sharp, glistening, translucent teeth.

Mommy. It's cold.