??????? ?????????? enjoyed the atmosphere of Avolyn Road—the way the afternoon sun winked on the windowpanes and shone a diffused golden aura among the town walls—how the only sound that could be heard was crunching, often caused by someone's Wellington boots, and occasionally brought about by a trucker's pitstop in the fall. She adored that: the quietness. She'd often think about this in the morning time, how Frostford kept its silence like how a man kept his pride: with great effort.

But today was different. She didn't expect there to be so much noise, so much panic. In front of the local shop were five—maybe six—cars spread out among the snow, their white-crested axles looking as though they'd been there for quite some time. There were roughly ten people gathered outside the front entrance, which was locked by the look of it. Locked and secured with a security shutter. Perhaps for too long; people didn't look too happy, nor did they seem all that patient. When Scarlet noticed this she beckoned for her mother to pull over. "What's going on?" she asked.

Gradually Vanessa pulled up alongside one of the vehicles—a large pickup truck coated with black paint and proclaiming the words ??? ???????! ??? ??? ????! on the bumper. When they got outside, a woman was yelling at the owner to open up or else she was going to starve. It was a voice that was eerily familiar to Scarlet, as though she had heard it in her memories, someplace hazy and prescient.

She only recognised it when her mother called out, "Rachel!" Of course it was her. The black-haired woman had been dressed in a dowdy grey coat and cargo trousers.

"Are you crazy?!" Vanessa asked, hurrying towards Rachel as quickly as the snow would allow her. "You're gonna bring the whole town down on your ass if you yell any louder." She approached Rachel, who responded with a half-cynical smile. The type that Scarlet had often seen her wear when saying things like You think you're a hot guy, huh? and Told you I could outdrink you.

That was funny to think about, that Scarlet's aunt spent more time drinking and smoking than anyone else in her family tree. And as the years went on Scarlet witnessed the effects wear away at Rachel's skin and, unfortunately, her voice. Oh, the voice was something else altogether, one that felt like a mixture between Betty White and a lung-cancer-advertisement actress, though the question of whether they were acting or not deserved a thoughtful answer, if not by Scarlet by someone that paid particular notice to such things. Maybe then would they decide Hey, I think smoking isn't for me. This person doesn't look all too good.

And Rachel didn't, either. Her skin was more wrinkly than Vanessa's, despite the fact she had been (at least) five years younger. (Scarlet didn't know how much younger exactly, but she liked to think that it made sense. That someone a little bit younger would make much bigger mistakes.)

"The bastards won't open up!" Rachel said, her smile returning to a rictus, the waxy pallor of her skin reflecting a portion of the sun. She brushed her hands through her hair, one of which had a Marlboro tucked between fingers. "And now the bastard stopped talking!" She hit the metal shutter with her free hand and winced. CLANG!

"Stop acting like a damn fool!" Vanessa said, her voice almost overwhelmed by the sound of others, who were also speaking frantically.

"Oh, be quiet, Ness! The man inside spoke to us once earlier, but he hasn't said anything since."

"What did he say?" Vanessa asked. Not waiting for an answer she said, "Why didn't you pick up earlier?"

Rachel took a puff from her smoke and coughed. Through it all she managed to offer her sister a confused glance. "Pick up?" She blew a line of smoke into the wind. "Probably because there's no signal out here. Not since the weather started speeding up. Reminds me of when we were kids and we'd go out and make snowmen. You remember that?" She laughed, the laugh turned into a cough, and the cough transformed into full-throated hacking.

"You doin' all right?" Vanessa asked, her eyebrows raised, mouth shut firmly.

And Rachel laughed again as if totally used to the question. Scarlet presumed it had been one that Rachel often asked herself, and maybe that was why it was so funny to hear it.

But Scarlet ignored this for a moment, looking back into the street. A truck came winding up the road a second later. Behind the wheel was a silver-haired man wearing a mask that reached a little bit below his chin. Scarlet thought he was a bit intimidating but was probably fine. A man just looking for food like everyone else.

A gale whistled by and brushed a large patch of snow across the man's vehicle, which he then wiped away with the window wipers. They squeaked noisily. She pulled up her hood and squeezed the coat on tight, trying to block out the sound. Newsflash: it didn't work. So she opted to stare at it with the air of someone who had just had their money stolen: angry and quiet. And she had normally been this way, back when the silent treatment was still effective and people didn't fight back with a silence of their own.

The wind was constant now—like a full-blown snowstorm. Scarlet's mouth gaped and dispensed a weary sigh, one full of hatred. Her brow furrowed, she turned back to the security shutter, where everyone was chatting about and saying things like We're gonna starve out here, fuck! and When are they gonna open? I have a family to feed. I can't travel into the city!

Realising this, Scarlet pulled out her phone, her hands shivering. She expected a call back from Michael, a voicemail or something to let her know he was doing okay. But nothing like that happened. Out here there was no signal, probably as a result of the blizzard. It took her all of ten seconds to stuff it back into her pocket, and then she heard a pair of footsteps come crunching up the path. Scarlet snapped her head up and saw that it was the man from the truck. He was a little more clear now: balding, about fifty or so, sapphire eyes. He was still wearing a mask, along with a black countrified coat, large backpack, and heavy pants—the sort you'd expect from mountain lumberjacks. Scarlet didn't know what they were called, but she saw them quite often. He was also very tall, maybe six-two or six-three, reminding her of Tommy. Scarlet looked at him whilst a worry line formed across her forehead.

Noticing this, the man favoured Scarlet with a pleasantly appropriate glance. He slouched over and said, "Hi, dear. Is the shop closed for the day?"

Scarlet kept quiet for a moment. She just needed some time to think. "I, uh—I don't know. I only just got here. So . . ."

"So you're just waiting for it to open? In this bleedin' cold?" He laughed heartily.

"Something like that. I mean, I'm here with my mom; I don't think we'll be here too long, though." Scarlet hesitated before asking, "I'm sorry, but do I know you, sir? You seem familiar." That was a lie; Scarlet had no clue who this man was, and had never even seen someone remotely similar.

"My, where are my manners?" He offered Scarlet a gloved hand for which to shake. "My name is Peter Jackson. Fifty-four, before you ask." His eyes shot up, letting her know that beneath that black facemask lay a smile, perhaps a grin. But this did very little to comfort her. "And no. I don't believe we know one another."

"Scarlet," she responded, accepting his handshake. "Scarlet Valentine."

"What a beautiful name, Scarlet Valentine. It seems most apt that you'd have that name; a beautiful woman deserves a beautiful name. And nothing—" He paused for a moment before sneezing, a loud shout of a sneeze. It made Scarlet recoil a little. "—less. Now, Scarlet, could you tell me when the shop opens?"

"Ah-again," she began, "I don't know. It's usually open all day. Which is why people are sorta weirded out by this whole thing." She continued pulling down on her hood, wide-eyed and thirsty. That tea didn't really sit well with her; she needed something cooler.

"Do you believe it will be open soon?" Once more: those eyes, but now there was a sharpness that wasn't there before. He clapped his gloved hands together before rubbing them against each other. A spray of snow sprinkled off of them as he did this.

"I don't think so; there's supposed to be a virus going around so I doubt they'd be . . . open for a while."

"Is that so?" Peter said. "Well, that just won't do. You see, my wife has fallen terribly ill. I've to bring her home soup and teabags to keep her happy; we live up by the mountain." He pointed towards the Frostford mountain for emphasis. "And that's quite a long drive off'n where we are now. Do you understand, Ms Valentine?"

"I think so," she said, a little more relaxed in posture. She looked up at the mountain, could just briefly see its black body through the snowstorm. "I hope your wife does well, Mr Jackson." She relaxed her thumbs and let the hood blow down. Her face was on full display: silky black hair, reddened cheekbones, a sharp nose that curved upwards, thin-lipped.

"Oh, I hope so, too!" Peter said; he took a step backwards and looked at the mountain. "I hope so, too."

A moment of awkward quiet passed, but Peter was quick to fix it. "Would you excuse me a moment, Ms Valentine? I have some business to attend to, and then I'll be on my way." He furrowed his brow.

What did he mean by business?

Scarlet stiffened. She watched the man reach into his pocket and pull out a Glock 19—a smooth, black one with a dragon printed on the handle. She wanted to scream but stopped herself by covering her mouth with a shaky hand.

BANG!

The man shot the gun towards the sky. A twirl of smoke protruded from the barrel afterwards, lifting off into the wind and covering the surrounding area in a rich burning smell. The people in front snapped their heads towards Peter, silent at first, then erupting into unanimous shouting. After which the man fired a second shot, and that was enough to keep them quiet, for the time being.

"All right, listen up!" Peter yelled, his voice no longer friendly, but instead assertive and offensive. "I'm gonna need you all to empty your pockets and toss them here." He dropped his backpack down alongside his leg and opened it. "In here! Now!" He stood back from the bag and beckoned for Scarlet to join them. "Sorry, dear," he told her.

Scarlet obeyed and trod through the snow, joining with her mother and her aunt.

"Now, hold on just a minute," a man from the crowd said. He stepped forward, hands held up, looking just about the same age as Peter, if not a little older, and about one hundred pounds heavier. A fat man. He wore heavy clothing, too. "What do you think you're doin' here, sir? These people are just lookin' for supplies. Just like everyone else. You don't mean to rob us of all we have, now do you, sir?"

"Your concern for your fellow neighbours is admirable, sir. But I don't care; that shop isn't gonna open anytime soon, so you best empty your pockets before I make an example out of you. That clear, mister?" Peter pointed the handgun at him, straightening his posture.

"But what about these people's families? Are they not important to you, mister?" the man asked, eyes gentle and welcoming.

Peter took a step back, pointed his gun away, and laughed. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Mr . . ."

"Adams," he said. "My name is Johnathon Adams. I live here, sir. Lived here with my eight-year-old daughter for almost a decade."

"Well," Peter said, "that's a real shame to do this to you, Mr Adams. But you're not the only one that needs something to eat or to drink or to live on. By the looks of you, you've had enough as it is." He re-aimed his weapon at Mr Adams.

Johnathon recoiled before saying, "Sir . . . I have a daughter to fee—"

"No sob stories or else your daughter gets it, too. Which one is she?"

"She's not here," the man quickly answered.

"Bullshit!" Peter shot a bullet at the man's feet, causing an explosion of snow to erupt from the ground up. "I'm not as foolish as you might think me to be, Johnathon. I know full-well that you wouldn't be so cruel to leave your eight-year-old daughter alone now. Especially with a pandemic on the rise. Do you know about that, Mr Adams? Of course you do." He took a step closer and re-asked, "Now, which is she?"

"Me!" a quiet voice shrieked from among the people. A few seconds later a little girl dressed in a pink slicker and gloves came walking out. Blonde hair. Cute button nose. She started bawling then and there, wiped away tears and snot with a sleeve, whilst her father just looked at her with a sadness of his own, one that was represented by a heavy frown. "Me . . ."

"C'mon here, girl," Peter said, gesturing his gun-holding hand for her to come closer. "What's your name?"

"Abigail," the little girl managed. "Abigail Adams." Then she started crying some more. Following Peter's orders and taking a couple steps towards him, she was stopped by a large hand. It was her father's.

"You don't touch her," the man said, more sternly, exchanging a menacing look with Peter. There was a wave of baffled anger in his voice; it made Scarlet's heart jump.

A moment of silence. Peter stopped pointing his gun, aimed it at the ground momentarily. His gimlet eyes conveyed that he had had enough of this man, that he was fed up with all the talk, that all he wanted to do was head back to the mountain and keep his wife in good health. "Well . . . . . ain't that somethin'?" He brought the weapon back up to an arm's length and fired, striking the man in the chest.

The man from the crowd fell into the snow in what felt like slow motion, thudding against the earth. And with it came a childish scream—his daughter. It was a sound that Scarlet knew all too well—the howl of a broken child, of a broken woman. She screamed the same way on the day her father passed, screamed loud enough to make an avalanche come tumbling down over a road. Luckily there weren't any avalanches around by the Frostford hospital, or else she would have been six feet under, too.

And for a moment—a long one that left Scarlet in tears herself—it was as though time itself had stopped. Not a word more was spoken by the crowd, because they knew with a guilty conscience that they had lost complete control of the situation.

Vanessa grabbed Scarlet and pulled her in close, her face shocked.

"Now," Peter said through the cries of Abigail, "if you don't want to end up like my friend here, or his daughter, for that matter, please empty your pockets into the bag. Seriously, don't make it any more difficult."

Everyone did just that. When the bag was almost full, Scarlet and her mother stood forward with nothing to offer other than the keyring and their phones. Scarlet reached into her pocket to pull out her phone but was stopped halfway through.

"You're fine, dear," said Peter. "I wish you all the best." By now, the blizzard was piercing, flying eastward at a constant speed of maybe 35MPH. That sort of speed was to be expected in Frostford. It had been a common weather phenomenon that kept coming back to the town like a bad cough. But Scarlet didn't feel the same way about this particular snowstorm. At the rate it was building it seemed as if it would break the barrier of 70MPH in no time. And whenever that happened—if it ever would—Scarlet believed people would die. So now, there was a storm brewing, a virus spreading, and, she supposed, people that weren't exactly with themselves. And that was excluding the little girl who likely just lost her only parent. (Scarlet remembered the man said nothing about a wife or a mother, which was weird; why would he say that unless she was . . . dead? It didn't help that she didn't know Mr Adams very well, either, nor his daughter.)

Thirty seconds later and the man got back in his truck with a bag full of goods: money, cigarettes, jewellery, all sorts of things. But not food. But wasn't that what he wanted? Or did he just make all that up for pity? It was honestly hard to tell. He drove off towards the mountain, leaving behind deep wheel marks in the snow.

After that the group pretty much diverged fully, all entered their vehicles without saying a word to the girl, who just lay hugging her father's lifeless body. Except for Scarlet, Vanessa, and Rachel.

"Oh, dear, dear, dear . . ." Vanessa said, pulling out her phone to try and call the police. But there was no reception. None whatsoever. And Scarlet knew this but refrained from saying anything.

"Darling." Vanessa reached down and patted the girl's shoulder. "Do you know where your mother is? I can drive you there—"

"Muh-Mommy doesn't live with us!" she managed to say. "I-I don't know where she is . . ." She bawled some more.

But in the moment, Scarlet formed an idea. "Couldn't you check his contact list? Check if her mom's phone number is there?"

"That could work," Rachel said. "If the man kept his phone on him. Check his pockets, wouldja?"

Vanessa's eyes lit up. "Dear, what is your mother's name?" Slowly, as she spoke, she reached into Mr Adams' pockets searching for his phone. Eventually she tugged it out, took off her gloves and tried opening the lockscreen.

It did feel weird to watch someone rob a corpse. Scarlet's stomach was very close to throwing up last night's dinner at that point.

"Abigail . . . the same as mine. We have the same name," she cried.

"Shit!" Vanessa said. "It needs a six-digit password!"

"What are we gonna do?" Vanessa asked Scarlet and Rachel.

For a moment Scarlet considered telling her that there was nothing they could do. That this girl was destined to freeze in the snow and there was no one they could call or contact. The world was a disgusting place with even more disgusting people and even more disgusting circumstances. How could a little eight-year-old girl survive in all of this shit? Alone.

Scarlet's eyes never left Abigail's pink slicker, which was now covered with a thick layer of snow. "I don't know . . ."

But Vanessa did. Vanessa knew exactly what she needed to do. "Dear, would you like to come back to my house on Robert Avenue? Do you know that place? It's safe and warm there. And when the signal comes back I can contact the police and try locate your mother for you. How does that sound, Abigail?"

Scarlet, though she hadn't said a word throughout all of this, thought it sounded pretty good. For the time being, at least.

Abigail wiped her tears away and sniffed. "Okay . . ." she said. And nothing more.