Mrs. Price pressed the tips of her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “August, if you intend to dampen the mood every time one of your children disappoints you at supper, we might as well eat like someone has passed every night,” Mrs. Price told him, staring, her words startlingly elegant compared to him. She did not touch him despite how close they were. A frown spread across her face. “I recommend a different punishment.”

“This’s my house, Sarah,” he spat.

“August.” Her tone was harsh-sounding, nails on a chalkboard; she held herself with grace. There was no resolution in her words.

The man frowned, eyes switching between his wife and second eldest. His eyes dropped, and he shook his head. “Benjamin, you will be at the general store early t‘ take care of the stock comin‘ in. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Good.” His father kept eating. “Are you pleased, my darling?”

His wife did not answer, barely offering him so much as a side-glance. She had returned to eating.

Ben opened his mouth. “I – ”

They met eyes again. “Yes, Benjamin?”

He shook Beatrice’s away, picked up his silverware, and started eating, his appetite completely gone. “I...sorry, sir,” he muttered. “I’ll do better.” Everything tuned out. The heat of the fire licked his arms, yet he did not feel it, the golden glow of the lamp dull and icy. The dining room, darkly-decorated, grew cold, alien. Shuffling the food around his plate, Ben forced three measly bites down, making himself sicker and sicker.

The conversation never recovered.

He did as he was told, arriving well before the deliveries. He awoke before the sun had risen, battling against November’s blustery winds to the general store, his clothes too thin to block it out. He grabbed nothing from the kitchen’s pantries, fearing the noise would wake everyone. Ben’s stomach would sit empty for the rest of the day.

He signed for them – a sloppy, loopy signature that shook with nerves – before adding them to the stock already in place. He worked in silence, treading quickly, adjusting the numbers from what he counted as he went.

Father Michaels’ sermon rose in volume to unnerving heights that Sunday. His tone, resolute yet calm as ever, used his own childhood as an example of gratefulness, reminding the congregation of the importance of appreciating what they had in their lives. “Hardships come and go,” the pastor continued, “but we must be grateful for those experiences. We are God’s children, these troubles are planned for us.”

Ben kept his eyes down, twisting his fingers in his hands.

Midday came and went. Benjamin Price could not stop; he did not believe he should, either. “Anythin’ t’ get him out ‘f the store,” his father had once said, the ghosts of those words following him everywhere he went. He avoided people’s eyes. He ignored the ache of hunger sitting in his stomach. He tried to ignore the knapsack of packages strapped to his shoulder, bouncing against the scabbing wounds on his back. He deserved them. That is what he told himself.

It had started to snow by the time he reached the post office and inn, the snowflakes whipping his skin in the biting cold. The light waned in the afternoon sky. He could not understand why his breath was so easy and gave it very little thought. He kept his eyes down as he entered. Mr. McClintock watched him deposit the orders on the desktop, money coming out of his pocket. “Th-they...” he started, intimidated by Mr. McClintock’s stare. Ben swallowed. His hands trembled, the tips of his fingers pale. “H – they need –”

“Mr. Price?” Mr. Pryce called, closing the door to the room beyond behind him. “Are you all right?” Ben had no chance to answer as he crossed around the desk, kneeling before the teen. His hands fell onto his shoulders. “Your face is...remarkably red.” He held the back of his hand to it; it burned too hot against him. The look of concern touched his face again. His eyes widened. “You’re as cold as death.”

Ben touched his face with his hands. He felt nothing but a cool numbness.

“Your fingers,” he breathed, holding Ben’s trembling palm against his scathingly warm skin. “P-please, come by the fire.” Mr. Pryce pressed his hand against Ben’s back, pushing him towards the stovetop. “Gerald, close the door.”

The man did, the wind rasping against the door frame. Mr. McClintock brought over a stool, as well.

It was at this moment when Ben started shaking, shaking so violently his knees threatened to buckle underneath him. He sat on the stool, arms wrapped around him. Ben’s breath hitched, ragged as it left his body. His skin screamed as it ached against the heat. He whined, fingers trailing over his face. The knapsack fumbled off his shoulders and to the floor. He had to go back to the general store. He opened his mouth again, but another shaking breath came out. A whimper. Ben’s shoulders rolled forward, his whole body shaking in visible tremors.

Mr. McClintock handed him a metal cup, its contents steaming. The look in his eyes told Ben not to reject it.

Shivering, he did. The cup was only filled partially with hot water, yet it still splashed over the edges and dripped down his hands.

Mr. Pryce touched Ben’s shirt, rubbing it between his fingers. A dark look crossed his face. “They’re paper-thin. Have you been walking around Durmont with this?” When Ben nodded, the man’s expression worsened. “Do you not have a jacket, Ben?”

He shook at how casually Mr. Pryce said his name. He clenched his jaw and turned away, ashamed.

The man stood, trekking into the back room and bringing back sloppily folded blankets in his arms. “Warm yourself, my boy. Take one before you leave. Please.” He said it in such a way Ben felt he could not reject his offer.

Ben wanted to. To take advantage of the man’s kindness felt like a cruel act to play, to take up his time and attention because he had been too stupid to grab Theodore’s already threadbare hand-me-down coat. He did not have the energy to deny it.