“Ben,” Mr. Pryce insisted, his eyes pleading.

The cup radiated heat through his tingling fingers and up his arms. Being seated next to the stove with four blankets at his feet meant Ben began perspiring after a few minutes, his skin still scorched red from the cold, yet the pain from it all seemed minimal to how disappointed his father will be. One blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Several minutes later, as Ben adjusted to the warmth, another blanket fell onto him.

He watched the two postmen move through their final checks before shutting the office down for the night. The windows rattled as the night wore on.

“You go, Gerald,” he whispered, reaching up to dim the hanging oil lamp. “I won’t be long.”

Mr. McClintock nodded. He stared down at Ben, his eyes softer than before. He patted his shoulder.

Ben shuddered. Not from the pain but the intense pity he could sense from the man.

He sighed and opened the door, blowing a frigid gust of snowy air into the office. The outdoor steps ached against the building’s frame, the door to their quarters above slamming hard with the wind.

Mr. Pryce sat into a chair behind the desk, sighing. “Stay until you’re ready,” he told the young teen. “I will not ask you to leave until you see fit.” The man shrugged, sighing. “You may stay here for the night, if you’d like, as well.” He glanced out the window, snowfall whipping against the glass. “I would not want you walking in this weather.”

Ben frowned, glancing into the cup. “I... I’m sorry, fer – ”

“Do not apologize,” he whispered. “I would not wish you to go back out there in clothes as thin as what you have. I am surprised you’re not ill yet.”

His words didn’t help quell the unease in his stomach. “I-I’m sorry, still...fer, puttin’ you out like this.”

Mr. Pryce shook his head, his soft smile still hanging on his lips. “Think nothing of it.”

Ben swallowed back a whine, pained at the obvious gentleness of his words. He sat back into the corner, the oil lamp dim, casting long dark shadows across the ceiling. As he glanced around, trying to fill the time, Ben eyed the poster again, drawn to its clean lines and legible typography. The page proudly announced the society’s name, the details fogged out by the lack of light. “Sir?” he started, turning to Mr. Pryce.

The postman sat up, papers scattered about the desk in preparation for tomorrow’s work.

“Can I...see...the...academic information? If-if you’ll let me.”

Mr. Pryce stood, disappearing into the back room. He came out with five pages tucked carefully in his hands. “They’re a bit dusty,” he started, flapping them in the air.

Ben took the pages in hand. He handed them back. “...I gotta go back now, sir.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Mr. Price. You make me sound like an old man.” He sighed, pulling a set of keys from his jacket pockets. He glanced out the door window, frowning. “Mr. Price, I implore you to stay the night. For the sake of your health.” He turned his eyes to the window, snow falling in the sliver of light. “If your father comes looking for you, I will take the blame. Is that fair?”

It was not. Ben would still be punished the moment he arrived back at the house. Yet he still found himself nodding, much to his own surprise.

Mr. Pryce sighed, his soft smile on his face. He handed Ben the academic scholarship paperwork again. “I am going to lock up, so if you need anything, use the broom handle on the ceiling, all right?”

He nodded again.

After showing him where everything was – extra firewood, writing utensils, a lantern, something to use if he needed to relieve himself – Mr. Pryce left for the night. He locked the door behind him, drudging up the same steps to the second floor.

Against the rattling windows, Benjamin Price settled into the warm corner by the stovetop, reading each page carefully in the dull, fading light of the lantern. The forms were detailed. The requirements and rules strict, specific. The words remained clear and crisp despite being printed three years ago. Something swelled in him as he read; it made him nauseous. He found a pen. Part of him resisted. He started writing. Filling in the lines of the application, his simple sloppy writing ruining the concisely printed lines. Ben watched himself, his hand moving under its own power. ‘Who in their right mind would ever decide to offer me a scholarship, of this scale, too?’

With each breath, warm and white in the winter air, that feeling continued growing. He could not quell it.

With first light, Mr. Pryce and Mr. McClintock descended the steps from their quarters. “I do hope he was all right,” the former wondered, glancing out over the couple inches of snow covering the town. “Where is his mother? His father, even?”

“He is not your child,” Mr. McClintock said back, rolling his eyes as he unlocked the door.

Ben, still asleep, splayed out across the wooden floor, wrapped intensely in his several blankets. The lingering warmth of the stovetop radiated out, yet the fire had burned out hours ago. His face, slightly red from the heat, perspired. The papers spread around him, as well, some pages folded against the teen’s head.

Mr. Pryce sighed, waving for Mr. McClintock to start opening the post office. “Mr. Price,” he whispered, kneeling. He placed a hand on Ben’s head. “Mr. Price.”

Lazily, Ben opened his hazel eyes, staring up at the man. He sat up, groaning. “What...what time...”

“Nearly six.”

He stared ahead, the emptiness in his stomach very pronounced. The knapsack beside him still had packages for delivery. Ben groaned and leaned forward, covering his face in his hands. He wondered how his father would punish him for being gone so long.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Pryce asked.

He turned onto his knees, gathering the scholarship paperwork before handing it to the postman. “Can...can I – may I send this? Please?”

Mr. Pryce took it.

“I don’t got any money.” Something flashed through his eyes before Ben fumbled out, “I – can I use the five cents Mr. McClintock paid me t’ post it?”

“I did not pay you,” Mr. McClintock reminded, his back to them. “Gus took my joke too far.”

He shook his head, waving off the man’s comments. “I will send it.”

“And – ” Ben held back, standing. He relaced his shoes. “If – if I get anythin’ from them, may I have it delivered to me? Direct, to me?” He met Mr. Pryce’s stare. “I want it t’ be a surprise fer, fer my parents.” He warily smiled.

Mr. Pryce stared. He seemed unconvinced by the look. Then, eyes dropping, he stood. “All right.”

Ben threw the knapsack over his shoulder. “And thank you, Mr. Pryce...fer your kindness last night.” He nodded his head. “I hope I’m able t’ pay you back someday fer it.”

He said nothing. Flapping the papers in his hand, he offered Ben his soft smile. “I will see to it that these get posted immediately.”

Nodding his thanks, Ben turned and threw open the door, his breath warm against the freshly fallen snow. His shoes sank into the drifts. Ben started back towards town, thinking no further of the paperwork he filled out. That feeling inside him, what consumed him so readily as he read the papers, extinguished the further away he walked, being replaced by the unease that usually settled in his stomach. He shivered against the cold, hugging himself a little tighter as the knapsack bounced against his back.

By the time he returned to the house, Ben was pale again, shivering. Skin burning as he warmed up.

His mother held him. His father said nothing.

Ben remained quiet the rest of the night, consumed with what punishment his father had planned for him.