Landline(86)

The snow looked as soft as icing. Smooth, but almost furry. She pushed through the doors and stepped outside, feeling chilled through after her first inhale. (Her T-shirt wasn’t any protection from the cold. Her skin wasn’t any protection.)

God. Oh my God. Have the girls seen this?

Georgie leaned over an empty planter, pressing her hand into the snow, watching her fingers make four canyons. The snow was light, but kept its form. She moved her palm up, shaping a soft curve.

She expected the snow to feel cold, but it didn’t. Not at first. Not until it started to melt between her fingers. She’d brushed some onto her feet, and they were cold now, too. She tried stamping the snow off her ballet flats, and looked up and down the drive for the taxi stand. There weren’t even any cars.

Georgie folded her arms and walked down the sidewalk, looking for a sign.

“Can we help you find something?” someone said.

Georgie turned. It was the ecstatic young couple. Still hanging on each other, as if neither of them could quite believe the other was finally here.

“Taxi stand?” Georgie said.

“You’re looking for a taxi?” the boy asked. The man. She should probably call him a man. He must be twenty-two, twenty-three; his hair was already thinning.

“Yeah,” Georgie said.

“Did you call for one?”

“Uh.” Georgie was shivering, but she was trying not to let on. “No. Should I call for one?”

The boy looked at the girl.

“There aren’t really taxis here,” the girl said apologetically—but also like Georgie might be an idiot. “I mean, there are a few, if you call ahead. . . . But it’s Christmas.”

“Oh,” Georgie said. “Right.” She looked up and down the drive again. “Thanks.”

“Do you need to use my phone?” the boy offered.

“That’s okay,” Georgie said, turning toward the door. “Thanks again.”

She heard them talking quietly. She heard the boy say something about Joseph and Mary and no room at the inn. “Hey, do you need a ride somewhere?” he called out to Georgie.

She looked back at them. The boy was grinning. The girl looked concerned. They were probably part of some fresh-faced Nebraska death cult who hung out at airports on holidays, picking up strays.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”



“You don’t have a bag?” the girl asked.

“No,” Georgie said, then couldn’t think of anything to say next that could possibly make her lack of bag/coat/socks make sense.

“All right,” the boy said. (Georgie still couldn’t call him a man.) “Where to?”

“Ponca Hills,” she said.

The boy turned to the girl. They were all sitting in the front of an old red truck, the girl squished in the middle. The heat didn’t work, and the front windshield was already fogged over. He wiped it with the sleeve of his green canvas coat.

“That’s out north,” the girl said, taking out her phone. “What’s the address?”

The address, the address . . . “Rainwood Road,” Georgie said, relieved to remember even part of Neal’s parents’ address, then hoped that Rainwood Road didn’t stretch the entire length of the city.

The girl typed it into her phone. “Okay,” she said to the boy. “Turn right up here.”



Georgie wondered how long they’d been apart.

The boy kept kissing the girl’s head and squeezing her leg. Georgie looked out the window to give them privacy—and because the whole city looked like some sort of fairy wonderland. She’d never seen anything like it.

The idea that this just fell from the sky.

And then looked like that. Like Tinker Bell had painted it on. How did people ever get used to it?

Georgie didn’t realize at first that it must be difficult to drive in. They were moving slowly, but the truck still slid through a red light. “I can’t believe you drove in this,” the boy said.

“I wasn’t going to leave you at the airport,” his girlfriend said. “I was careful.”

He grinned and kissed her again. Georgie wondered if they were getting close to Neal’s neighborhood. Almost no one else was on the road. A few people were out shoveling.

They must be close. Georgie recognized that park. That bridge. That bowling alley. The girl gave the boy directions. Georgie recognized a pizza place that she and Neal had walked to. “We’re close,” she said, leaning forward and resting a hand on the dash.

“Rainwood should be your next right,” the girl said.

“Yeah . . . ,” the boy agreed. But the truck stopped moving.

His girlfriend looked up from her phone. “Oh.”

Georgie looked up the hill, but didn’t see what the problem was.

The boy sighed and scrubbed at his dirty blond hair, then turned to Georgie. “We might get halfway up that hill. But I’m not sure we’d get down. Or out.”

“Oh . . . ,” Georgie said. “Well. It’s close. I can walk from here, I know the way.”

They both looked at her like she was crazy.

“You’re not wearing a coat,” he said.

“You’re not even wearing shoes,” the girl said.