I wake up to Wayne shaking my foot like he’s trying to revive a corpse.

“Eddie,” he grumbles. “School’s canceled. Roads are iced over. Go back to sleep.”

It takes my foggy brain a solid ten seconds to translate that into English. School. Canceled.

I crack one eye open. “Snow day?”

“Snow day,” Wayne confirms, already pulling on his work boots for his shift at the plant. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“No promises,” I mumble, already rolling over.

And that’s exactly what I do—sleep like I’ve been hit with a tranquilizer dart. By the time I crawl out of bed two hours later, my hair’s sticking up like I got electrocuted and the trailer is cold enough to see my breath.

I throw on sweats, thick socks that don’t match, and a hoodie that probably should’ve been washed last week. Classic Munson winter attire. Then I shuffle to the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cereal—the marshmallow kind that turns the milk suspiciously blue if it sits too long.

I lean against the counter, spoon hanging from my mouth, feeling extremely victorious about not being at school. The heater near the door wheezes like it’s fighting for its life. Outside the window, everything’s white—snow piled high, sky gray, the whole world quiet in that weird, muffled way winter mornings always are.

I’m about to drag myself to the couch for a long, pointless day of doing nothing when movement catches my eye.

Across the way—just three trailers down—I see her.

My neighbor.

The girl a couple years younger than me, the one who lives with her grandma, the one I spot at school sometimes clutching her textbooks like they’re life preservers. The one who always seems like she’s trying to exist quietly, tucked into corners, fading into crowds.

She’s bundled in a coat that’s too big for her, hat slipping down over her ears, boots leaving uneven tracks as she shuffles toward the mailbox. The wind nips at her, snowflakes sticking to her eyelashes. Her breath fogs in front of her as she lifts the little metal door.

Then—disaster.

Her foot hits a sneaky patch of ice hidden under the snow.

Her arms flail like she’s trying to take flight.

And she goes down—hard—straight onto her butt with a little “oof” I can hear even from behind the glass.

My cereal nearly hits the floor because I laugh too loud.

Not in a mean way. In a oh-my-god-what-am-I-watching way.

Because she sits there for a moment—stunned, offended by gravity, hat crooked, mittens covered in snow—and looks around like she’s hoping no one witnessed the betrayal.

Then her gaze flicks up.

Right to my window.

Right to me.

Mid–cereal bite.

We stare at each other.

She blinks. I blink. Her mouth drops open in embarrassment. And I, like an idiot, raise my spoon in greeting like I’m saluting her fall.

Smooth, Eddie. Real smooth.

Her cheeks flush pink—whether from the cold or humiliation, who knows—and she scrambles to her feet, brushing snow off her coat. The mailbox door is still hanging open, empty. She didn’t even get what she came for.

I set the cereal bowl down and sigh, rubbing the back of my neck.

Well… guess snow days are for heroics too.

I pull on my boots, grab my jacket, and head for the door—because if she’s going to faceplant her way across the trailer park, someone should probably make sure she gets up in one piece.

Besides…

It’s not like I had anything better to do.