Protecting Marie by Kevin Henkes

said Fanny.
    â€œNot really. But thank you.”
    â€œBetter than me.”
    â€œWhat I am is cold,” said Ellen.
    â€œHome?” said Henry.
    â€œHome,” said Ellen, nodding.
    â€œHow about one lap together first?” asked Fanny.
    Off they went. Henry hummed a carol. Fanny moved her head up and around and over and down.
    Ellen grinned. “What are you doing?” she asked.
    â€œMaking a figure eight,” Fanny replied, blushing. “Imagining it.”
    Ellen took Fanny’s elbow and coaxed her into a little dance. “When I was a girl,” said Ellen, “Grandpa John told me that it wasn’t figure eights I was forming, but rather the symbol for infinity.”
    â€œThe symbol for infinity is the same as an eight?” Fanny asked.
    â€œNot exactly,” Ellen replied. “It’s lying down. This way.” Ellen drew it with her finger. “Horizontal.”
    â€œIn-fin-i-ty.” Fanny pronounced it slowly. “That’s the word Kai had to spell with the pieces of ice in ‘The Snow Queen.’”
    â€œNo,” said Henry. “That’s eternity.”
    Fanny wrinkled her nose. “Oh,” she said. “Don’t they mean the same thing?”
    â€œThey’re similar,” Henry answered, “but they’re definitely different.”
    Eternity. Infinity. Fanny made a mental note to look them up in the dictionary at home.
    A wooden stake sprayed with a runny splotch of fluorescent orange paint marked the halfway point. When they reached it, Henry announced suddenly, “Race to the bench! Last one has to bring in some firewood! Go!”
    Fanny took off, her skates clicking and clacking against the ice. She sped ahead with reckless abandon. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see everyone: her father, her mother, her dog. And everything became so alive and heightened and dazzling. Everything stunned and pleased her: The way her father’s voice had boomed in the night and still rang in her ears. The way the wind pulled a strand of her mother’s hair across her face, dividing it perfectly in half. The way Dinner’s tongue hung out of her mouth like a pink sock. The way theair she breathed through her nose felt icy as it entered her, then burned inside her head. The way the streetlamp turned into a halo when she squinted at it. The way the matted pellets of snow on her new mittens became diamonds. The way her toes were so cold they were hot. The way the big, lone, skeletal elm tree in the distance looked like a giant wineglass.
    How could one moment be crammed with so much?
    Fanny could barely contain herself. “I love you,” she called gleefully, not thinking of one person or one thing or anything specific.
    â€œMe, too,” said Henry.
    â€œMe, three,” said Ellen.
    Dinner barked and won the race.
    On Christmas night, Fanny dreamed.
    She was waiting at the dining room table. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
    â€œWind sauce and air pudding!” Henry bellowed.
    â€œI’d rather skate,” said Ellen.
    It was snowing inside the house. Flakes as big as milkweed fluff fell gently. Through the whiteness, Dinner emerged. She was standing up on her hind legs, humanlike, carrying a tray. As she came closer, Fanny noticed that she was skating and that the tray held three glasses of milk, each with a red licorice straw. The floor had turned to ice.
    Although they were in the dining room, Fanny saw that there were brilliant orange embers in the fireplace and that all four burners of the stove were turned on. Four flaming blue crowns.
    â€œElm trees without their leaves look like wineglasses,” said Henry.
    â€œDon’t lick the snow off the porch railing,” said Ellen. “Your tongue will stick.”
    And then Fanny was standing by the front window, rubbing the steam away with her hand.