Harlow Creek, 1991 The cold came up through the ground first. That was what I remembered most, even now, even decades later, when I tried to put that night somewhere manageable in the architecture of my memory. Not the voices. Not the light bleeding between the floorboards in thin amber lines. Not the smell, though God knows the smell was the kind that found its way into fabric and hair and stayed there for days. It was the cold. The way it rose from the frozen dirt beneath the barn floor and settled into my small bones like something deliberate. Like it was making a claim.
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