It snowed quite a bit today. Chunky white flakes found the ground as the cloudy blue sky dissipated into sheets of navy blackness. I sat through it all at my bedroom window and indulged in the layers of snow piling up on streets and rooftops. The house right across sits still, silent, and a single light is turned on in one of the rooms. Alistair hasn’t worked on that yet. At least the curtains are closed.
I remove my blankets and zip up a sweater from the closet. The T.V echoes faintly in the corridor, but I expected what would appear on the news, so it doesn’t faze me. The bathroom door unlocks and Kallen comes out with a towel hung over his shoulders and damp hair.
I pass by without looking at him. “Finn Oakley’s dead, by the way.”
He pauses, gives me a weird look. “What’s with you?”
