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Skye lived more than a mile from town. Surely, the older woman hadn’t walked to her cottage in the middle of the snowstorm.
    A wave of dizziness pushed the question of her houseguest’s transportation from Skye’s thoughts. She laid herhead on the back of the seat and closed her eyes for a second. Woo. That cold medicine must be strong. Her head was swimming, and she felt as if she might pass out. Not wanting her father to notice and tell her mom, she made small talk. “Did you get everyone’s driveway cleared?”
    “Yep.” Jed’s steel-gray crew cut was hidden by a bright orange cap with the earflaps folded up. His jacket was open, revealing a red plaid flannel shirt, and his hands were bare. No Scumble River man ever buttoned a coat or put on a pair of gloves until the mercury stayed below the zero mark on the barn thermometer for at least a week.
    Jed’s faded brown eyes squinted as he gazed out the windshield. Only citified wimps wore sunglasses. He had a summer face—tanned and leathery—which looked out of place in contrast to the snowy landscape.
    Skye took a deep breath. Good, the wooziness was passing. “What’s the temperature?” She tightened the wool scarf she had wound around her throat, and adjusted her earmuffs.
    “Radio said it was hovering around the mid-twenties.”
    “That’s too cold for November.” She put her gloved hands to the truck’s heating vent. “If this keeps up, we’re all going to freeze come January.”
    “Can’t do nothing about the weather.”
    Skye shot him a look. “That’s not what you say in July when the crops need rain.”
    Jed and Skye rode in silence past mountains of snow and ice-encrusted trees. A few hardy souls were out with shovels and blowers, but most of the houses they passed were silent, the snow surrounding them pristine, untouched by footprints.
    “Dad.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I want to get a basic set of tools so I can fix little things around the cottage. What should I get?” Skye asked, thinking about last night’s toilet emergency.
    “You only need two tools—WD-40 and duct tape. If itdoesn’t move and it should, use the WD-40. If it moves and shouldn’t, use the duct tape. Anything more complicated than that, call me.”
    Skye rolled her eyes. Her father’s view of women was somewhat antiquated. As Jed turned right on Basin Street, Skye glanced to the left. The downtown area looked cleansed by the whiteness. The spire of St. Francis Catholic Church seemed to float above the commercial buildings. And the businesses themselves sparkled as if dusted with a teenager’s glitter powder.
    They pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Cars were everywhere. Skye didn’t see one open space.
    Jed grunted, “I’ll drop you off and wait in the truck. Don’t take too long.”
    Skye unbuckled her seat belt and jumped out as soon as her father coasted to a stop in front of the entrance. She paused. Oh, that had been a mistake. The sudden movement made her feel light-headed again. Once the world stopped spinning, she hurried inside and halted abruptly. Where was the line of shiny steel shopping carts that usually occupied the space between the door and the checkout stand?
    As she moved farther into the store, her question was answered. The aisles were wall-to-wall people, and they were snatching items from the shelves as if their very survival depended on seizing the last roll of toilet paper.
    What had gotten into everyone? Skye spotted her cousin Gillian fighting with some Jabba the Hutt look-alike over a loaf of bread. As she watched, they tugged at opposite ends until the plastic split and slices flew all over.
    The man quickly gathered them up, shoved them into his cart, and snarled, “Who lit the fuse on your tampon?”
    Gillian burst into tears and screamed, “Pregnant women don’t use tampons, you idiot.” She was a tiny blonde with big blue eyes, wearing a yellow maternity top with ruffles running down the sleeves and matching stretch