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Bobby woke up with snow sticking to his hair, his dad's voice hoarse from calling him. He blinked at his parents standing in the doorway, squinting as the light snapped on.

"Not again." His mother moaned slightly, turning away from the scene. His dad looked sad and scared. It made Bobby's stomach flip to see that expression on his father.

"Well, we'd better get this cleaned up." He touched his wife's shoulder. "Make us some cocoa Maddie?" She nodded and headed for the stairs, giving her son a brief smile meant to reassure him, but in it was the same fear he saw in his father's eyes. The ice in his stomach was as real as the ice in the room. "I'll go get the shovels, son. See if you can get the window opened?"

Bobby swallowed hard. "Sure dad." He pushed the covers back and swung his legs out of bed and into a snowdrift. The window was iced shut; he had to go get his mother's hairdryer.

Together, clad in pajamas and robes, they shoveled the snow that blanketed Bobby's room over to the window and scooped it down to the lawn. Previously they'd dumped the snow in the bath down the hall, but that was heavy work and his father had a bad back. Bobby's window faced east and the days were still warm even though summer was waning, so if they spread the slush out it would be melted before the neighbours got up. They worked silently, William Drake shivered, his jaw clenched tight to stop his teeth from knocking together. He kicked the loose powder off his slippers every few steps but they were soaked anyway. He could deal with that. What bothered him was the way his young son worked beside him, unnoticing of the freezing cold.

"The same dream?" his mother asked, as the three of them sat around the table.

Bobby hesitated, and nodded, looking down into his hot chocolate.

William and Maddie exchanged a look. "I've got the couch made up for you sweetheart. You should try and get some more sleep."

Bobby nodded again, and went to the living room. His drained his mug and placed it gently on the end table before settling under the blankets on the sofa. The dream. The reality. It had been almost three months ago, but every time he woke up to the crackle of ice it seemed like it was only seconds ago that he'd been waving goodbye to his best friend. Watching her wave back, step into the street, the squeal of brakes the flash of green as the car hit her, the flash of red as she hit the ground. Him running, leaping, almost sliding over the fence, feeling so cold. Pulling her into his arms, feeling her going limp, watching the light go out of her eyes, feeling, although the logical part of his mind said it was too soon, her body growing cold. Then going numb himself, until he felt made of ice.

He could hear his parents still sitting in the kitchen, the concern in their hushed voices reaching him where actual words were indistinct. He turned over and tried to sleep. And not to dream.