Jack Peter stepped through the door from the dream house and into the outside world. Snow landed on his face and melted in the warmth of his bare skin. Flakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he had to blink and nod to shake them off. Spangling confetti fell from everywhere, all around, all at once, as the faint light caught the spinning surfaces. Jack in a box of excelsior, in a glitter dome, in a whirl of blown chalk. The air was cold to breathe and left a wet metallic taste on his tongue. Shirred folds in the white landscape ran from the house to the sea, the blanket of snow thick and soft and heavy. He pulled one foot from its hole and noticed the extra weight in his thighs. In the bulky coat, he imagined himself an Eskimo, a musher in the Klondike. When he took a second step, he slipped and stumbled forward, uncertain of how to maintain his balance when his feet no longer worked. Bracing in a spread stance, he looked up.
Outside, outside. He had forgotten the way the air felt, the sensation of the wind pushing against him while it held him upright, the clouds forcing down the sky, and behind them, he imagined, the sun blinked like a great eye. He sucked in a gulp of December that filled his lungs with ice and his lips began to tingle and go numb. The impulse to laugh proved irresistible, and he wiped the wetness from his face and forgot about Nick altogether until he heard his voice calling as though from the moon. Ten feet away, Nick implored him to hurry, to catch up, but Jack could not move. He had forgotten how.
Shuffling through the snow, Nick headed straight toward him, certain as a steam engine. His mouth and cheeks flushed scarlet, and a wet drop hung from the tip of his nose. Snowflakes crossed his face and broke it into a thousand little pieces. From inside the house came the monster’s roar.
Nick’s hands gripped his arm. “We can’t stop here. We have to get somewhere safe. The house across the street.”
“I’m outside,” Jack Peter said.
Nick wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Yes, right. That’s terrific, but it is chasing us. You won’t be anywhere for long if we don’t escape.”
“Outside.” He smiled at Nick.
Nearby a dog barked, the sound muffled by the storm. Snow slid off an evergreen branch and landed with a wet thud. Inside the front window, the monster spied them and banged its fists against the glass, and then moved out of sight.
“Yes, let’s go.” Nick said and tugged on his arm to escape.
In the driveway two parallel indentations marked where the Jeep had pulled away forever ago, and Nick headed for them, thinking it would be quicker to follow the compacted tire tracks rather than wade through the fresh snow. Jack Peter trailed along like a toddler, running stiff legged and trying to pull his arm free. The lights were on at the Quigleys’, and a plume of smoke curled from their chimney. He could visualize himself inside that house, tossing a ball to the collie, playing at last with the twins, their surprised but hospitable mother offering him hot chocolate and peanut butter crackers. It was almost as if they were already there, deep in the dream, safe and warm and happy. He could imagine them as clearly as if he had drawn the whole scene.
They heard the dog before they saw it. Barking furiously, it emerged from behind the Quigleys’ house, but it was not the little border collie protecting its territory. Churning the snow in great strides, the big white dog from Jack Peter’s drawings raced toward them, ears back and teeth bared. “Oh shit,” Nick said and grabbed Jack Peter’s arm, but the beast braked in a cloud of snow, stopping short at the edge of the property as though an invisible barrier prevented it from stepping onto the road.
“I thought it was dead,” Nick said. “I saw it in the back of the car.”
With one finger, Jack Peter sketched a fence between them and the dog. “I don’t think it can get us,” he said. “I don’t think it will cross.”
Snarling and snapping its teeth, the dog paced on the edge, worrying a path and holding them at bay. They didn’t dare move.
Behind them came the monster, picking up their trail from the mudroom. Even from forty feet, they could hear its frantic breathing. The only escape route would be to circle round the other side of the house. If they backtracked, there was a chance they could make it inside again and lock the doors and hope for the best. Failing that, they could simply head for the sea and wait for Jack Peter’s parents to return home.
“Run,” Jack Peter said.