Snow folds over the back of my hand. It is something electrical down the side of my fingers, a reverse glove making my hand colder. With my teeth I pull my other glove off and scrape more snow onto my buried hand.
I figure the other boy’s tears were warmer than the ice and snow on his face. The mix of tears and ice and a little blood had rolled into his shirt. I’d hit him right in the eye with this rock packed in ice. I told him not to tell but he didn’t even listen. The wrinkles in his face it was like they blocked up his ears.
So I’ll sit here with my throwing bad hand buried. I’ll make like I was going to snap it off and leave it. I guess I know that won’t really happen. But will they know when they come find me?