Covering his mouth and nose, he stepped into the freezing garage, ducking to avoid the thick part of the cloud and ignoring the burn in his eyes as best as he could. The discomfort from both the sharp drop in temperature and the restriction of his breathing was nothing compared to the anxiety he felt for leading his son into this place. It was a terrible way for him to find out, but wholly necessary if they were to avoid the fate of their neighbors. When he turned to Michael, he expected a look of shock, maybe an open mouth, maybe frozen features, maybe tears. What he saw was devastation like nothing his mind could have ever imagined. Michael's blue eyes seemed to split like tiny eggs, his soul pouring down his cheeks like spilled yolk. His fingers bent backwards, and he tapped his palms together in a palsied and unconscious movement. His loose jaw seemed to stretch to his knees, and the only sign of motion was his stuttered breathing. "Michael," Chris said as he looked at his little boy.
