Over the last few days, we’d begun gathering around in one big group to eat our meals. Without anyone saying anything about it, that ended now. We sat there in our little groups eating in deep gray silence. “It’s slowing down,” said Elijah, returning from the window. And it was. It had been all day. No one had said anything about it because A) it had done this before, only to come back as strong as ever a few hours later, and B) it seemed like even one more flake could do it. Some tiny fraction of an ounce would turn out to be one tiny fraction of an ounce too many and it would all come down on us. Or it could stop dead, and the air could warm up, and the melting would trigger a collapse. By nine o’clock, it was pitch-dark, inside and out, and we had no idea what the snow was doing. The radio still sounded OK, but the light behind the dial was gone, so we shut it off. Nine o’clock, with no light and nothing to do. It was like being a little kid and being sent to bed at seven.
