After that came the comments. Little ones, always wrapped in fake concern. Remarks about our outdoor lights being “a bit bright.” About our trash cans sitting out an hour too long. About my car being “temporary,” as if it were an embarrassing phase I’d eventually grow out of.
I ignored him. I had better things to do.
Then my son Rowan got sick.
Five years old. Fever climbing fast. He was burning up, glassy-eyed, barely responsive. The thermometer read 104.5. My wife was out of town for work. I called the nurse line, panicking, pacing the living room.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Emergency room. Now.”
I scooped Rowan up, wrapped him in a blanket, and rushed outside.
That’s when I stopped dead.
My car was solid ice.
Not just frosted. Not just frozen shut. I mean completely encased—windows, doors, handles, mirrors. A thick, glassy shell. It looked like something out of a winter art exhibit.
For a split second, my brain refused to process it.
Then I tried the door. Nothing.
