A cold to shatter your bones.
They crossed a river by a concrete bridge where skeins of ash and slurry moved slowly in the current.
It’s snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down. He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom.
'Perhaps they were right in putting love into books,' he thought quietly. 'Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.'
He lay listening to the slow drip in the woods.