By December, the cold had teeth. It sank into the bones of the old farmhouse like a living thing, gnawing at the edges of every room. The wind howled down from the north across the flat Indiana fields, carrying snow that drifted in long, white ridges along fence lines and piled against the porch steps in soft, deceptive heaps. The windows were so frosted over that daylight barely reached inside; the glass panes looked like sheets of clouded ice, letting in only a pale, watery glow that turned the kitchen walls gray.
