Page 109 of Scatter the Bones

Soft, weightless flakes pour from the sky in a heavy, steady fall, piling up fast.

Someone cleared off the porch and steps and shoveled a path to the garage, but it’s already covered with a fine dusting of snow. A push broom and shovel rest against the house, coated in a soft layer of snow. I take the shovel and carve a narrow path toward my truck—hat and gloves are in there somewhere. No warmer coat, though. Fucking forecast never mentioned this much snow getting dumped on us.

The gloves are old, but warm. I wiggle my hands into them and pull on the knit cap, covering my ears, then continue digging through the SUV.

Blanket, tarp, knife.

Glass cleaner, paper towels.

Another knife.

Empty gas can.

Compact tool kit. Tire repair kit and a portable air compressor.

Jumper cables. Tow straps.

Wire cutters. Zip ties.

Duct tape, Electrical tape.

Anotherknife.

Bolt cutters.

Ballpeen hammer.

A box cutter—why the fuck am I carrying so many cutting instruments?

Flashlight. Headlamp.

Absolutely nothing useful for snow removal.

“Motherfucker,” I grumble, slamming the tailgate shut with an unsatisfyingthud.

“Morning!”

I turn.

Margot’s cousin Paul greets me with an amused smile. “Cold enough for ya?”

So engrossed in searching through all the shit stashed in my ride, I missed the sound of the snowblower cutting out and Paul creeping up on me.

Wrath’s right, my situational awareness needs improvement.

“You could say that.” My gaze sweeps the driveway. “I thought I heard a snowblower?”

Paul jerks his thumb toward the front of the house. “Died on the sidewalk.” His red face scrunches into a sheepish expression. “I think it’s out of gas? At least I hope that’s what it is.”

“I’ll run out to get it,” I offer. “Is it a two-stroke, or four?”

An embarrassed smile spreads over Paul’s face. “It’s newer, if that helps.”

Be nice.He’s Margot’s cousin. A mortician, not a mechanic. I couldn’t drain a body—he doesn’t know what kind of snowblower he has. It’s all good.

I nod. “Let me take a look.”

Paul leads me to the front, where the Cadillac of snowblowers sits tilted on a patch of snow-covered concrete. Stand-on, rubber track drive, probably a fifty-foot throw distance. Overkill for residential sidewalks. Figures the Cedarwoods would buy the most expensive snowblower and then forget to put gas in it.

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