She leapt and spun before him, skinny legs flashing beneath her nightgown.

 

"It's a snow day, Daddy!"

 

A broad grin appeared on his normally dour face. "It sure is, Honey! There's no way that bus can make it up here today."

 

She stopped spinning and beamed at him. "That makes today a special day, right?"

 

"It'll be special, all right," he promised. "Just you and me, we'll make it special. What do you think we should do?"

 

A long list followed, things they absolutely had to do to celebrate the special day. Snow featured prominently in several of the items, from snow angels to snowmen, but she also made sure to include her favorite dolls, a tea party, and a lovely nap all tucked in warm and cozy under her special blanket. He contributed advice whenever she got stuck, delighting in everything she said.

 

After a while he observed, "Sounds like a pretty full day. You'd better get upstairs and change into something warm while I make us some breakfast."

 

"Okay, Daddy!" she said, and turned toward the stairs. Then, grinning impishly, she spun and threw herself into his arms. "Daddy hug!" she demanded.

 

"Daddy hug!" he agreed.

 

Then she was gone.

 

He stood there a moment, smiling up the narrow stairs that led to her bedroom. He turned then toward the little woodstove; he noticed it was cold. A spider had built a web from the stovepipe to the handle of the teapot.

 

The woodbox beside it sat open and empty.

 

I'll have to go and get more wood, he thought. Then he glanced outside. The sun was shining, and he could see...

 

He shuddered then, the smile draining from his face. He sat heavily at the table and fumbled for a cigarette. His hands shook so badly, it took him two matches to get it lit. He drew on it once, then closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

 

It was quiet in the little house. The cigarette burned down, forgotten.

 

I should cook something, he thought suddenly, remembering his daughter's voice. He opened his eyes, scanned the cans in the open cupboard, glanced briefly at a saucepan which stood inverted on the drying rack. Then he closed his eyes again.

 

Cigarette ashes dropped unheeded to the plastic tablecloth in a long grey lump. He heard them scatter, but didn't look up. After a while, he felt heat on his fingers, took one final draw, then stubbed out the butt.

 

He didn't light another.

 

* * *

 

The hands on the wall clock never shifted. It had wound down without him noticing. I ought to do something about that, he thought, then, absently, I wonder what time it is.

 

How do you find out what time it is when your clock stops? He considered that for a while. Then his eyes drifted to the black device that occupied the middle of the table. The time was shown there, displayed in numbers. Fair enough, he thought.

 

There were two small buttons, chrome against the glossy black plastic. One was labeled Timer, the other Manual On/Off. He felt a brief urge to press one. He reached out a hand, but couldn't bring himself to go through with it.

 

My nails have gotten awfully long, he thought. Vague images of nail clippers and a trash can passed through his mind.

 

His eyes drifted to a pile of mail on the table. The top envelope had been opened to reveal an unpaid bill. Funeral parlor. It's a crime, the prices they charge, he thought, but could summon none of his usual rage at the idea.

 

In the end, he didn't wind the clock after all. Why bother? He knew what time it was.

 

Not that it matters.

 

* * *

 

Light faded, and soon it was night.

 

Still he sat at the table, unmoving. It was time for bed, he knew. A vague ache in his midsection reminded him that he hadn't eaten, but he ignored it.

So many things to do, he thought vaguely. The ghost of a smile touched his lips.

 

After a while, he dozed in his chair.

 

The device on the table kept the time through the night, the numbers on its face counting the hours away. He never looked at it.

 

* * *

 

The sun had risen outside, but he didn't stir. Birds sang, and a light breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees. A warm glow entered the room, golden, with a hint of green grass.

 

A second spider began spinning a web, this one from the stovepipe to the cabinet. It worked in silence, concentrating fully on its task.

 

Then it was seven. A click came from the device on the table. Light and sound streamed forth, making a picture in the air. There followed sounds and smells, and the image grew solid.

 

For the first time in days, he didn't react to it. At some time during the night, he had stopped breathing. The machine did not notice.

 

His daughter appeared within the hard light image. She leapt and spun before him, skinny legs flashing beneath her nightgown.

 

"It's a snow day, Daddy!"