They’d waited for the snow for so long that it was exciting to finally see it. There was only a dusting the first day, just enough to poof up as you stepped and to make perfect little snowflakes on your clothing. But it didn’t take long for it to pile up ankle height, leaving big piles along the narrow paths the adults dug into the snow. 

It was nice to be warm. The house was full of little blankets that they piled onto the couch, snuggling in with mugs of hot tea and the crackling of a good fire. Sam did her best to leave her nervous thoughts alone and focus on the little bits of learning Emily gave her. Letters and numbers, baby stories to read aloud, counting and adding and taking away — Sam’s knowledge was random and wobbly, sometimes in an embarrassing way. But alone in her room at night it was hard to keep everything at bay. The snow closed in and lengthened the shadows outside the window. The layers of blankets weighed heavy on her chest. 

But even three feet of snow couldn’t stop River from coming over. Mostly it was after dinner, when she would bring warm leftovers from her place. Sam did appreciate her visits - her wrist was still tender and it was hard to do many of the activities she might otherwise use to pass time. 

The afternoon was dim, bright white light reflecting from the snow into the windows. Today Iris had tagged along, though River did most of the talking. They sat among a pile of knit blankets on the floor in front of the stove. Iris was knitting, her fingers moving faster than Sam’s eyes could track. River was explaining the rules to a game involving a complicated web of string.

“It’s called cat’s cradle,” she said. “Camilla taught it to me.” She wrapped a piece of yarn over her fingers and pulled it taught. “So you just have to grab it on the sides.”

Iris pointed the spaces out. It was more like a puzzle than a game, Sam thought. She moved her fingers the way Iris told her to, thumb and forefinger holding open a star shape.

“So that’s Soldier’s Bed,” said River. “Now I’m gonna make Candles.” Picking up the points of the star, River pulled the string into straight lines. “Okay, now you reach under and pull it through.”

The string felt rough against Sam’s hands. As Iris pulled her guiding hands away, the string slipped around the backs of her hands. Sam pulled away like she’d burned herself, the yarn dropping in a tangle in her lap.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No, it’s okay.” Sam read confusion on River’s face. “We can try again.”

Sam looked down at the yarn. “No, um —“

“Oh, sure.” River picked up the yarn and wound it back into a ball. “We can do something else.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated.

“It’s fine, Sam.” River’s tone had a question in it.

“River,” Iris said, “How about you go help Em in the kitchen.”

Em was puttering around baking something out of odds and ends from the pantry. 

River and Iris exchanged a glance that seemed to mean something, then River rolled her eyes and got up.

Iris inched a bit closer to Sam. “Are you alright?” she asked, lowering her voice so only the two of them could hear. 

Sam didn’t answer.

Iris leaned a bit away, staring across at the stove and away from Sam. “Want to talk about it?”

She slid back and leaned against the couch, and after a moment Sam joined her. 

“Do you like living with Quinn and Em?” Iris asked.

Sam shrugged.

Iris left a space for Sam to talk, then went on. “I guess they aren’t quite like parents cause of how old they are. Like, I remember other people treating them like they were kids. 

I know they’re not that young cause going to school to be a doctor takes forever, but I don’t know if Quinn even finished their school.”

“Quinn went to doctor school?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, I guess theirs was one of the last ones to close. They don’t really talk about it except when they’re trying to explain something medical.”

Sam looked down at the wrappings on her wrist. It was healing and no longer made her scream with pain, but it still hurt.

“How’d you break that, by the way?”

Sam groaned. “I fell in a hole.”

Iris made a strangled noise that was clearly smothering a laugh. “Damn.”

“It was stupid. I shouldn’t have bothered them.”

Iris leaned forward to make eye contact, her brown ponytail flipping over her knees. She wore a striped turtleneck and blue jeans, with tiny moons piercing her ears. 

“Why do you always act like nobody wants you around?” she asked.

“What?”

“You know we wouldn’t come over here if we didn’t want to. Right?”

Sam’s brain seemed to screech to a halt as she tried to catch up to what Iris was thinking about. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Yeah, I know.” Her thoughts were too jumbled for her to understand, let alone communicate. 

Iris dropped back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “You know, I don’t know who my parents are.”

Sam snapped back to attention. “What?”

“My dads found us on the side of the road when we were little kids. I’m glad I was too young to remember much, probably would have messed me up pretty bad.” She gave Sam a bitter smile. “I guess you didn’t get so lucky, huh?”

“I remember my mom,” Sam said. “Not well, but I remember.”

“Yeah? What was she like?”

“She was nice. She was — bright, I guess? I don’t know what happened to her.”

“Maybe she’s out there somewhere.”

Sam winced. “I don’t think so. She wouldn’t have let anybody take me if she could help it.” 

Iris tapped her shoulder into Sam’s. “Sorry.” She laughed. “Guess I shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want answered.”

Sam allowed herself a little laugh in response.

“Hey,” Iris said, “Is there anything else that freaks you out? So we can stay away from it.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think yarn on my hands would bother me.” Sam rested her chin on her knees. “I don’t like getting yelled at.”

“Nobody likes getting yelled at,” Iris said. 

“Sure. And, I guess I don’t like using magic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It feels kind of gross, now.” Sam sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Iris’s shoulder touched Sam’s and stayed there. “But tell me if you want to talk, okay? I want to know.”

Sam looked into Iris’s eyes and realized she meant it. “Okay,” she said.

Iris smiled a real smile.

Later, alone in her room with only a flickering candle for company, Sam found the phantom sensation of rope on her skin kept invading her thoughts.

She was trying to read, sprawled out on her bedroom floor under a blanket. Sure, it was warmer downstairs, but Sam still preferred to be alone.

She could feel rough fibres around her wrists, making her scars itch and sting. Sam kept noticing scars - suddenly light and mirrors had become part of her everyday life. There were a dozen small ones on each wrist, and matching sets on her ankles. Her shoulder was slashes with a long thin line. It was harder to see the collection of discolourations on her back, but she knew from Em’s reactions that there were a few. She could just see the wrinkles on her shoulders and back from a particularly horrible sunburn. 

Sam was broken. This wasn’t a new thought. Despite it all she was aware what a childhood was supposed to look like. But she felt her sharp edges more clearly when other people made space for them. Their gentle understanding hurt. She wasn’t sure why, didn’t have the words to explain. It made her feel ungrateful. She ought to be on her knees thanking Em for taking her in, but instead she bristled at every touch. 

Sam could feel the constricting fear travelling up her chest. She abandoned her book and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was safe, she told herself. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Of course there is, the fear whispered back. This was an exception to the rule, not something to be trusted. Sam blinked away hot tears and pulled the blanket over her head. Inside her cave she laid down, still curled in a ball. It was hard to breathe. She knew she was breathing, knew if she stopped breathing she would faint and her automatic body would fix things for her. These thoughts were not helpful.

She gave in to the tears. The feeling of crying was at least a distraction. She let herself be consumed by the cycle of sobs and shaking breaths. 

“Sam?” It was Quinn’s voice at the door.

Sam wished they would go away. Maybe if she ignored them for long enough they would.

She heard Quinn’s footsteps come closer, and felt them sit down beside their blanket cave. Sam waited for them to touch her, or lift the blanket, or say something.

After a long stretch of silence, curiosity won out. Sam sat up and pulled the blanket off her head.

“Was that your first panic attack?”

So that’s what they were called. Sam shook her head.

“Yeah, can’t say I’m surprised.” They kept their eyes forward. “Any idea what triggered this one?”

Sam had a pretty good idea, but it felt much too embarrassing to admit to.

Quinn looked over to gauge her expression and nodded. “Okay. Em gave you a notebook?”

Sam nodded. It was on her desk, a generic green ring-bound book with lined pages.

“Good. On a good day, not now, I want you to try to make a list of your triggers. Draw pictures, write whatever words you know. You can show it to us if you want, but mostly it’s for you. Panic attacks suck, it’s perfectly reasonable to avoid your triggers where you can.”

They sighed, running a hand through their hair. “I didn’t study much psychology, but I did a bit, and Em and I have had our own stuff to work through. Not everything that worked for us will work for you. But for me, lists help. Writing things out helps. For Em, she likes to make plans, and she likes to talk. She has her little comfort activities, and I have mine. You’ll find yours. Find what makes it easier.

Breathing slowly works for most people. Grounding - that’s when you try to notice all your senses, go through what you can feel, see, smell, hear, all that. Uh, counting backwards was one, I think? Do you sleep okay?”

It took Sam a moment to realize that was a question. She shrugged. Mostly she did, but some nights sleep never seemed to come. 

Quinn nodded. “Try to get up if you can’t sleep. Get water, walk around, do something boring. Then try again. It’s natural to wake up for a couple hours in the middle of the night - apparently people were studying if that was a better way to sleep before everything went to crap. In my opinion it is not.” They frowned, seemingly trying to get their thoughts back in order. “Sorry, I told myself I wouldn’t talk at you too much. So much for that.”

Sam shrugged. She didn’t mind. She could feel Quinn’s concern in their words, had learned from their treatment of her wrist that their ‘doctor voice’ was only a mode of thinking. 

“You feeling a little better?” they asked.

She hadn’t noticed, but she was. She nodded.

“You want to come downstairs, or stay here?”

Sam thought for a moment. “Downstairs,” she said. All of a sudden she didn’t want to be left alone.