Cheeks red from the cold, Keith ran as fast as he could across the front yard of Pritchard House. He skidded around a big sycamore and pressed against the trunk. “…eight, nine, ten. Okay, Colin, you can look around now. See if you can find Keith.” A skinny dark-haired boy about seven years old dropped his hands from his eyes and took a half dozen steps toward a fir. “In the freezer, Colin.” She wrapped her arms tight across her front, gave a dramatic shiver. Colin veered to his right. “Colder. Ice on your nose.” Colin swiped his nose with a red mitten and laughed. He turned and retraced his steps. “Warmer.” Colin trotted ahead. “Getting hot.” She clapped. I wished I could stay outside and watch the boys play. Colin shouted as he came around the sycamore. “Got you,” he shouted as he grabbed Keith, who squealed with laughter. I dropped into the living room for a different game of gotcha! Chief Cobb stood to one side of the fireplace. A cheerful fire crackled. The living room was warm, but there was no air of holiday cheer.
