“You should take these back,” my brother said, holding out the Christmas gifts I had brought for his

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Chapter 3

THEME:
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“My coat kept me warm on the drive over, Celeste,” I said, my voice dropping so low she had to strain to hear it over the music. “Your problem is that you think coats are meant to impress people who don't care whether you freeze. Enjoy your party.”

I ended the call.

I set the phone on the console, turned the key, and listened to the engine roar to life. The heater blew cold air across my knuckles before slowly warming up. I backed out of the space, drove up the spiraling ramp, handed my validated ticket to the attendant, and drove out into the Minneapolis snow.

The drive across town took thirty minutes. The blizzard had started in earnest, swirling thick white flakes against the dark glass of downtown office towers, blurring the city into a quiet, muffled landscape.

My house was a 1920s brick bungalow in south Minneapolis. It had original oak trim, radiators that hissed like sleeping cats, and a front porch that caught the morning light. When I walked through the door, the stillness was absolute. I hung my wool coat on the brass hook in the entryway, kicked off my snow boots, and carried the green gift bag into the living room.

I sat on the sofa without turning on the main lights, illuminated only by the small, warm bulbs of the pine wreath on my mantle. I reached into the bag and pulled out the two wooden stars.

Dad had carved them out of scrap cedar during the final winter of his life, when the chemotherapy had stolen his stamina but not his hands. The edges were smoothed by sandpaper, rounded and soft to the touch, oiled until the grain looked like liquid amber. On the back of each, he had pressed his wood-burning tool, searing his initials and a single word into the base: Steady.

He had given that same advice to me when I wrote the first lines of code for RouteSpring in our basement twelve years ago. Don't build for the weather you want, Mer. Build for the storm you’re going to get. Stay steady.

Andrew had never understood that. To Andrew, a storm was just something you outran by driving faster in a car you couldn't afford.

My phone vibrated against the coffee table.

It was my mother, calling from Phoenix.

I stared at the screen, took a steadying breath, and answered.

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