The wind is whipping the snow outside into huge tornadoes of whiteness. The entire house rocks in the squall, the walls shaking and the windows shrieking like they’re going to explode any second.

Conner and I move down the stairs as silently as we can. Overhead, the lights suddenly flicker, go out for a second. We sneak further down.

“Where are the parents?” I whisper. At the bottom of the stairs, Conner peeks out from behind the wall, checking the living room, then the kitchen.

“Kitchen,” he says. “I think they’re—”

He suddenly holds a finger up to his lips, a scared look on his face.

My mom, then Coach Ben, walk past, into the living room. If they turn, they’ll see us crouching on the staircase.

“Look at this!” my mom says, pointing out the picture window in the living room. “Ben, this is insanity. If anybody is out driving...”

They stand in front of the window, watching the storm outside. Conner slowly steps out from the stairs, toward the door. We’re going to have to go past the living room to leave. If either of our parents see, it’s over for us.

I follow Conner slowly, both of us moving like we’re being hunted by dinosaurs. The front door beckons, is within reach…

“I haven’t seen it this bad in forever,” Coach Ben murmurs.

Conner lunges for the front door, and I go with him, dashing past the living room and out of sight.

We huddle by the door, waiting until we hear our parents return to the kitchen.

“I should’ve stocked up at Costco,” I hear my mom say. Conner opens the door, and we enter the storm.

It’s insane. I’m nearly blown off my feet when I meet the open air. Ice and snow slam into my body, so intense I have to close my eyes.

“C’mon!” Conner shouts over the howling wind. We quick-step over the pavement, almost slipping on the surface, then make it into his Jeep. I wrench open the door to the passenger seat and throw myself inside.

We’re both breathless in the car. Conner turns on his wipers, and a huge sheet of snow flies off.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I say. “This is a bad idea.”

“We have to,” Conner says. He looks resolute and determined in a way I haven’t seen him before. He turns the ignition and starts the car.

“Here we go.”

We hit the streets as the snow continues to bullet into the windshield. Conner goes slow, hunched over the steering wheel. I can barely see five inches in front of the car. It’s just a static-y mess.

“If you look closely,” Conner says in a dramatic British voice, like a nature documentary narrator, “you may notice one of Earth’s more interesting phenomena: the cluster of ice crystals called snow.”

I burst out laughing, even as the Jeep slides across a traffic lane. Thank god there’s no other cars.

“Oh, shit,” I say, still laughing, as Conner rights himself. “Do you even know where you’re going, Mr. Attenborough?”

“Direct me,” he says, then slips back into his awful British accent. “While this thing called ‘snow’ looks similar to downy fur, appearances can be deceiving. This precipitation is actually, shockingly, cold.”

Despite how stressful this is, I can’t help but grin. Conner looks so serious as he acts like this crazy person, I can’t keep a straight face.

“Turn right at this light,” I say. “I mean—up ahead, you will encounter what is known, in midwest terminology, as a ‘traffic light.’ Much like a tropical frog, its colors change in response to various natural stimuli.”

“Thank you,” Conner says, making the turn. A rush of wind shakes the car, but Conner stays the course, keeps us steady. “These colors seem to communicate in some kind of language that the metal steeds known as ‘cars’ can interpret—but how these signals are exchanged remains a natural mystery.”

The parking lot to the fabric store is up ahead. I point wildly.

“We made it,” I say, “and maybe even learned something along the way.”

Conner comes to a gentle, sliding stop. I steel myself for the blast of winter air, then open the door.

The two of us race toward the fabric store.

“I think they’re open!” Conner says. “The lights are still on!”

But when we get to the doors, I see a worker locking the front. He’s wrapped in an enormous purple coat.

“No!” I shout at him. “Sorry! Please!”

The man looks at us, jumping in shock.

“Hello!” I say again. “Please—can we please grab something before you leave!”

“It’s extremely important!” Conner shouts over the wind.

The worker looks at us, confused. “You need fabric? Sir, this is the worst winter storm I’ve seen in ten years!”

“There’s a deadline!” Conner says. “This is dream-making stuff!”

The man watches us for a second longer, then, annoyed, unlocks the door.

“Two minutes!” he says.

Conner and I sprint inside the store, still in darkness. I move farther back, to the aisle of denim.

“It’s okay,” I say, “I know what I’m looking for.”

I rummage through the sheets of plaid, trying to find the perfect thing. The storm and the time limit are stressing me out, addling my poor mind.

“No, no, not right,” I say, growing more and more concerned that I won’t find what I’m looking for.

“Wait,” Conner says, holding up a bolt of distressed denim. “Didn’t you talk about how you wanted it to be very broken down, or rugged-seeming, or something? This is kind of cool.”

To my surprise, when I look at the fabric, it all comes together for me. The whole outfit, cohesive, tied together by this distressed material.

“Conner,” I say, “you’re a hero.”

We take the fabric to the front, where the worker quickly rings us up, then pushes us back out into the storm.

“I’ll send you flowers when I release my first collection!” I say to the worker, who just smiles and gives a small wave. Conner and I carefully return to the Jeep.

Inside, I let out a big breath.

“Don’t do that yet,” Conner says. “We still have to make it back.”

Banks of snow are building up, covering everything, but Conner treads through the icy streets like a pro. He makes the right turn, navigates his way through the wind and snow, and we make it back to the house with barely a skid.

“Thank you,” I say. There is an expansive, yawning relief inside of me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

“Just repaying the favors,” Conner says.

We exit the Jeep and head to the front door, both flushed with success.

That feeling disappears almost immediately.

Cathy and Ben are waiting for us, looking stricken.

“BOYS!” my mom shouts. I wince.

“Oh my god,” Ben says. “Did you go out—driving through this storm?”

“Dean needed fabric,” Conner says mildly.

Our parents look at each other like they’re about to explode.

“Neither of you are leaving this house again,” my mom says. “I cannot believe you would risk your lives like that—”

“Without even telling us,” Ben says angrily.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Thank god something awful didn’t happen to you,” my mom says. “It’s getting worse and worse out there.”

“Exactly,” Ben says, then looks at Conner. “It’s a miracle you made it back here, even with the Jeep. There’s no way we can make it home tonight.”

Conner blinks in surprise. “Wait, what?”

“No one is going anywhere,” my mom says. “Conner, you and your dad are going to have to stay here tonight.”

I can’t help it. My heart starts beating faster than it did navigating a winter storm.