Woken by the suddenly apocalyptic banging of the furnace, he goes outside, squinting against the sharp sunlight. At least it’s stopped snowing. Kids don’t come around offering to shovel anymore. Four cigarettes left. He’s going to have to almost kill himself slip-slide-hiking to the convenience store in order to continue killing himself. He wants to be angry, but can’t scrape together enough willpower. He can still still hear the furnace banging. Behind him, the whole house is shaking. He feels sorry for young people who still believe that summer would return in a year or two. But he still has matches, and strikes a light, inhales. Three cigarettes left now, and the day just beginning.

Patricia Russo's work has appeared in One Art, Acropolis Journal, The Twin Bird Review, Revolution John, and Metachrosis Literary