The problem was, Carrie questioned her questions. The light coming through the window was nearly blinding—white and piercing. She squinted, trying to surface completely from her sleep. She pushed the covers off her legs, the chill of winter snaking around them, and got out of bed. Her book on relieving anxiety fell onto the floor, the bookmark sliding across the hardwoods. She picked it up and walked to the window. A tiny break in the clouds had allowed the sun to peek through, but she could see more dark gray in the distance, which was good because with the amount of snow outside, the reflection of sunlight was so bright she could hardly enjoy it. She could make out the camper in the driveway, its roof piled with at least a foot of snow. The yard, the streets, the driveway were all covered in a pristine blanket of white. Carrie loved to look at the snow before anyone had walked in it, when it wasn’t damaged by feet or muddied by cars. It reminded her of children—their innocence, their untainted little feelings—brand new, with no blemishes.
