The Question of Miracles by Elana K. Arnold Page B

ever posted our grades.”
    â€œThat was pretty cool of Sarah, considering her name was at the top of the list,” Boris said.
    â€œThat’s just the way she was,” Iris said. “Sarah took care of business.”
    After a minute, Boris said, “Hey, Iris?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThanks for calling.”

14
    Fall collapsed into winter. The days grew even colder and darker. By early January, Iris’s mom decided she didn’t want Iris riding the bus to school anymore.
    â€œBlack ice,” she explained. “Too dangerous without seat belts.” So she or Iris’s dad did the morning drive.
    This at least let Iris sleep in an extra fifteen minutes, which Charles appreciated. When she finally did have to climb out of bed, she folded the blankets around him, up over his ears to keep him warm.
    On the first of February, Iris awoke to a different quality of light filtering through her bedroom window. She slid out from underneath Charles’s warm body, tucked him in, and went to look outside.
    All around was soft and white. Their car, parked next to the house, wore a coat of snow; the branches on the trees were bowed slightly with the weight of it.
    Iris blinked against all the whiteness, it was so bright. And the
sky
—blue, painted with big, fluffy gray-white clouds. Iris hadn’t seen a sky that blue since they’d arrived in Oregon.
    Iris dressed quickly, pulling on her heaviest socks and her favorite jeans along with a thermal shirt and her thick purple wool sweater. And she bounded down the stairs two at a time, throwing open the front door and skidding to a stop on the porch.
    She took a deep breath. The air filled her, cold and sharp. She bounced up and down, excited.
    â€œBeautiful day,” said her dad behind her. Iris turned and smiled at him.
    He was wearing a sweater too. A funny zigzag-striped rainbow one. Steam from his coffee rose up, meeting the plumes of his breath. Her dad had started growing a beard when they moved to Oregon. It had been a funny beard at first, spotty in parts, but it was filling in pretty nicely, and Iris liked the way her father looked, standing there with his sweater and his coffee and his beard. He’d gotten a little thicker through the middle, too, from all the home-cooked meals he’d been preparing. Iris thought it suited him.
    â€œToo pretty a day for school, I think,” said her dad in a neutral tone of voice.
    â€œReally?”
    Her dad nodded. “Absolutely. First snow is a cause to celebrate. Come on inside. Let’s eat some breakfast, and then I’ve got a surprise for you.”
    Â 
    Her dad’s waffles were always delicious, but Iris had a hard time concentrating on them this morning. She ate a few bites as she watched him bustle around the kitchen, packing a picnic lunch—a large thermos of hot chocolate, a smaller one of soup, a box of crackers, a plastic container of cheese and salami. Three plates.
    â€œIs Mom coming with us?” Iris asked.
    Her dad shook his head. “No, she had to go in to work early.”
    â€œSo who’s the third plate for?”
    He smiled. “Not Charles.”
    They loaded the picnic into the old station wagon her dad had bought for hauling gardening supplies. There was something in the far back, something long and lumpy, covered by a blanket.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Iris tried to peel back the blanket, but her dad grabbed the hood of her jacket and pulled her away.
    â€œWait and see,” he sang. “Hop in.”
    They drove toward town, their tires crunching through snow. Iris’s dad had wrapped them in chains and they clanked loudly.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Iris asked from the back seat.
    â€œYou’ll see.” Her father caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. Iris loved the network of lines that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled.
    Iris thought maybe they were going to the movies. Or to the