The kitchen sink runs for a moment and then stops. On the counter beside it sits an ice tray with one square empty while the others shine clearly beneath the overhead light.

John stands in front of the freezer with the door still open. Cold air spills across the floor and gathers around his ankles. He reaches inside and lifts out a single ice cube between his fingers. It is hard and cold enough that his hand tightens around it immediately.

He closes the freezer door, drops the cube into a paper cup, and carries it to the kitchen table beside the story he had been reading earlier.

A few minutes later, he lifts the cube out again.

This time he holds it carefully without squeezing. Around him, the kitchen settles into its ordinary sounds. The clock ticks steadily from the wall. The refrigerator hums softly behind him. The ice presses against his skin and stays there while he watches his own hand.

As the edges begin to soften, the cube slips slightly between his fingers. Water gathers along his knuckles and runs back down into the cup. Outside the window, a car passes slowly along the street. Somewhere else in the house, a door closes.

The ice continues growing smaller.

One corner rounds away first.

A sharp sting moves through his palm for a moment before the cold spreads evenly across the rest of his hand.

John places what remains of the cube back into the paper cup and sets it on the table beside his closed book. His hand is red now. He opens and closes it once, then again.

On the chair beside him, his backpack waits.

He lifts it by one strap and slides it onto his shoulder while the kitchen clock continues ticking behind him. After drying his hand against his jeans, he walks toward the front door.

Outside, the morning air moves lightly across his fingers.

John steps down the porch stairs and walks toward the sidewalk.

The street remains exactly the same as it was.