I was five years old when the Chicago winter tried to swallow me whole.

The wind off the lake carried a sharp, bitter frost that stung my cheeks.

I sat on a metal bench near the edge of Millennium Park, clutching my mother’s old wool scarf.

The wool was grey, frayed at the edges, and smelled of lavender soap and old rain.

My boots were too small, pinching my toes until they went completely numb.

People walked past me in heavy coats, their heads bent against the swirling snow.

None of them looked down at me.

To them, I was just a small shape in a faded blue jacket, disappearing into the gray afternoon.

I squeezed my plastic doll against my chest, trying to keep her warm too.

Her name was Lily, and she was missing her left arm.

Then, a pair of polished black leather shoes stopped on the concrete directly in front of me.

I looked up, squinting against the falling white flakes.

The man wearing them was tall, with dark hair dusted with snow.

His long charcoal coat looked thicker than three of my blankets combined.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” he asked.

His voice was deep, sounding like the heavy doors of the big banks downtown.

“No,” I said, my teeth clicking together.

“Where are your parents?”

He looked around the empty plaza, his eyes scanning the bare, frozen trees.

“My mama told me to sit here,” I said.

I pulled the gray scarf tighter around my chin, burying my nose in the wool.

“She said she would be right back.”

The man frowned, kneeling down on the wet concrete.

He did not seem to care that the slush ruined his expensive trousers.

“How long have you been sitting here?” he asked.

“Since the sun was over there,” I said, pointing toward the tall buildings on Michigan Avenue.

Now, the streetlamps were beginning to flicker on, casting yellow circles on the ice.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves, offering them to me.

“Take these,” he said.

They were much too big, but they were warm from his hands.