“I’m trying,” he murmured.

“Think about the gallery,” I said, trying to keep his mind active. “Think about the first time we met.”

“You were restoring that small Dutch landscape,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” I said. “The one with the cracked varnish.”

“You told me the secret was patience,” he whispered. “And the right solvent.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Just focus on that.”

The wind howled outside our small shelter all through the night.

It sounded like a wild animal tearing at the pine needles.

I could feel the temperature dropping, turning my breath into a thick white cloud.

Every time Alexander’s eyes closed, I nudged his shoulder.

“Tell me about the house in Maine,” I said, trying to keep him talking. “The one your family owned when you were ten.”

“It was on the coast,” he murmured, his teeth clicking together. “Julian and I used to sail. He always wanted to steer. He hated when I took the rudder.”

The memory seemed to bring a tiny spark of warmth to his pale face.

By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving a silent, white world.