if it keeps falling like this maybe we'll never go back

How long have the children been in the basement?

The television suggests: Olympic Day 11. Today’s broadcast schedule: ski jumping, biathalon, ice dance. The provisions at hand: half-eaten bowls of Bacon Dipper crackers and oversteeped Fruit Loops; evaporating glasses of orange juice; the last three packs of string cheese (one each, no fighting).

The world outside is powdered and indifferent to haste. No one’s going to school until the teachers end the strike, and no one’s in the mood to bargain in this weather. The adults are cold and slow, like single drops of meltwater sliding down an icicle. Their point develops over time.

No one has attempted to feed these kids worksheets or flashcards and it’s better that way. After two weeks out of school they have claimed the basement with their small animal smells and makeshift nests. They’ve braided blankets around pillows and scattered slippers like snowdrops across the linoleum. Pyjamas are their uniform. They judge physics in jump landings and calculus in judging scandals. If you dare interrupt them three heads will swivel and hiss. They have reverted to the tender beasts children were meant to be: sleeping and eating at will and freed from the burden of performing good manners, good turnout, good grades.

Eventually the snow will stop falling, the grown ups will start talking, and the rules will return. Until then, 3 kids gasp in unison at how high, how far the skier flies.