Maybe a Fox Read Free

advantage of it before it got so cold that the snowflakes wouldn’t stick together, or too warm, so that they melted.
    Don’t be late for the bus, was another thing Dad said over and over. Then he followed with, This is Sylvie and Jules’s dad, counting on them.
    It was his way of making extra sure that they were paying attention. Jules was pretty certain he wasn’t counting on them to make snow families in their pj’s, especially when it was close to bus time. But Sylvie was already rolling one tiny ball and then another, intent on her work.
    â€œYou make the snow dad and I’ll make the daughters,” Jules said now.
    Making miniature snow families was something they had started long ago: teensy snow fathers and snow children, little families like theirs grouped around the house. Some of the snow families included friends, like the Porters, who lived across the river from them. According to Sylvie, it had been their mother who’d started the tradition. Tiny snow people, easy for tiny humans to make with only a little help.
    â€œDon’t forget a snow mom,” said Sylvie, and then she added, “I’ll make her.”
    â€œNo!” said Jules. “ I’ll make her.” The anger she’d felt just minutes before crept back under her skin.
    Sylvie looked startled by the insistence in Jules’s voice. Jules could hear it too, but why should Sylvie always get to make the snow mom? Jules patted a small figure together between her blue mittens while Sylvie watched. Then she placed her down next to the snow dad, which Sylvie had stuck right in the middle of the trail, his little stick arms spread wide as if to hold the snow daughters back.
    â€œThere,” said Jules. “A perfect snow family. The last one of the season.”
    But Sylvie reached out, picked up the snow mom, and gently set her down right in the middle of the family circle. Jules almost said something—why did Sylvie have to correct her?—but she didn’t. There was something in Sylvie’s eyes, something that kept Jules quiet. All these years, and Sylvie still missed their mother so much. Jules missed her too, but she knew it wasn’t like Sylvie’s missing. Sometimes she wondered just how big that kind of missing could be.
    â€œMom loved new snow,” said Sylvie. “Just like us.”

3
    K apow! Like an exclamation point, a faint gunshot echoed. It was distant, likely from across the river.
    The bear.
    Dad had told them that a rogue bear had been raiding some of the local farmers’ chickens. As if to verify the disturbance, a host of birds spoke up. A dozen pairs of cardinals, a small flock of black-capped chickadees, tiny wood finches, and a bunch of starlings. They all started squawking, and without warning, snow suddenly shook itself off the tree branches and swirled around. Jules drew in a cold breath. It was time to go in. But she could tell with one look that Sylvie had other ideas, ideas that meant leaving Jules alone again.
    â€œNo, Sylvie,” said Jules. “NO. The bus . . .”
    But Sylvie just smiled. “Plenty of time,” she said. “I’ll be quick. I have to start getting in shape for track anyway.”
    Sylvie was the fastest sprinter in the school, the star of the track team. The second fastest was Liz Redding, and she wasn’t even close.
    â€œNo. Come on, we have to get dressed. Besides, I’m freezing.”
    But Sylvie stayed put, right there by the snow family. Right there by the trail that led to the Slip.
    â€œI have an errand,” she said, and she patted her pocket.
    Oh no. No no no. Jules knew what was in there: a wish rock. A quick image of the striped sock in their bedroom closet, bulging with wish rocks, flashed through her head. Had Sylvie taken one out? She must have. Maybe it was the special one, the striped chunk of gneiss that Jules had slipped in there just yesterday, perfect for throwing