The Cold House

“How is this possible?” Marcela asked, her hand gripping the bare skin of the opposite shoulder and rubbing for warmth.

Here inside the house, it wasn't just cold, it was freezing. Every piece of furniture gleamed as sunlight from the open door ricocheted off virgin frost. Our shoes crunched through a thin layer of ice, the ground was slick enough to make every movement a gamble. We weren't prepared for this. How could we be? A few blocks away the temperature was a wretched 122 degrees.

“I don't know.” I said. “I've never seen anything like it. Vegas can cool down huge casinos in a desert. Google can refrigerate servers that span city blocks. White Valley used to be able to make snow. This, this is something else entirely. It's like ground zero of a frozen explosion.” The air was so cold, it hurt my lungs to breathe it.

“I don't like it, it's creepy.” Marcela said.

“We can go, I've seen all I need to see.” For now, I added silently. There was no doubt that I'd be back once I'd found warmer clothes.