We were all afraid to get near until my
sister poked him. He didn’t move, had
somehow made it through the woods and fields in
a blizzard to find our front porch. We used
the shovel to scoop him and carried him
inside, the flames low by then. Had we not
burned the extra wood, he might never have
woken, and the next night we were colder,
having used too much of the ration
in the night before. No one wanted to
touch him, mucous draining from his nose and
mouth, until at last, after several
days, my mother scratched his head a little.
He drifted off then, curled like a circle
in the box, beyond what a fire can do.