Andy hides from the other kids in the igloo they built from snow up to their waists. Out the tiny door he sees cars sliding, parents picking up children. But not his. He hears excited voices. Twenty inches already! Traffic jammed… phone lines down. Now everyone’s gone. Andy wishes he hadn’t hidden, that someone had noticed. He starts walking, snow filling his boots, stinging his face. Two cars go by but not the little red one with the big dent. His legs ache and he leans into a snow drift, his eyes tearing, snot running onto his upper lip. It’s starting to get dark and he wishes he was home drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows from his Oscar the Grouch mug, watching his mother prepare a big tray of baked macaroni and cheese with butter and crumbs on top, the way it smells when it turns brown and crunchy on the edges. But their house, with its triangle roof and brick chimney, is too far away, and he’s never walked alone, isn’t sure how to get there by himself. Andy covers his face with his gloved hands, imagines how his dad’s mustache curls into a smile when he helps Andy stack blocks into a tower or sound out words in If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. How he’d be saying, “One foot in front of the other, son, one in front of the other.”