The winter of 1998 began like any other. I was nine-years-old, ready to spend Christmas break building snowmen and drinking hot chocolate at the family cabin. The nearly twenty-hour drive from Georgia drained us, but setting my eyes on the snowy New Hampshire landscape rejuvenated me in a heartbeat. We pulled up to find the caretaker, Mr. Graham, had just finished shoveling a fresh coat of snow off the driveway. He leaned against the house, moderately out of breath, as our car glided to a stop.
“Thanks Steve,” said Dad, cracking his back as he climbed out of the car. “Everything in order? Anything I should know?”
“Hello Greg. Jen. And Miss Sara! So nice to see you. My gosh, you grew again since the summer.” I ran up and gave Mr. Graham a hug. “I thought I told you to stop growing so much
