Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

December 24, 2024, 6:23 pm

JACK

W hen I booked the last flight on Christmas Eve out of Chicago to Denver, I knew what I was signing up for. I knew I’d be battling traffic and holiday crowds, navigating chaos at O’Hare, making it home just in time for my dad’s annual reading of The Night Before Christmas while wearing the matching PJ’s Mom always buys.

What I didn’t plan for was the weather. A record-breaking snowstorm, swirling into the forecast, wreaking havoc on my plans.

I’m standing on the curb in front of my apartment building, swiping furiously at the Uber app on my phone—no one’s out driving right now, and I can’t blame them. The snow is coming down practically sideways, the wind cutting through my coat and turning my bones to ice.

Shivering, I trudge through the foot of snow on the sidewalk toward the nearest El stop, dragging my carry-on behind me. I force myself to focus on what lies ahead: four precious days of laughter, family, and warmth—an escape from the grind of medical residency. Four days to think about something other than my overwhelming exhaustion, the constant pressure to get everything right, or the crushing sadness of watching patients slip away despite everything we do.

Four days to feel like myself again.

I can almost hear the Christmas music drifting through the house, smell Mom’s cookies fresh out of the oven. The thought pulls me forward. I just need to get there. I just need to get home.

My phone chimes with a text, and I pull it out of my pocket, swiping away the snowflakes collecting on the screen:

FLIGHT 227 from ORD to DEN has been canceled. Check your email for rebooking options. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Groaning, I flip over to my email inbox, scanning the message that just arrived from the airline, searching for some glimmer of good news: a flight later tonight? Or early in the morning?

But then I read the final line, and it’s like an icicle piercing my heart:

Due to severe weather conditions, the Federal Aviation Administration has issued a full ground stop at O'Hare International Airport until further notice.

My chest constricts, and I feel the sting of tears threatening—whether from the wind or sheer frustration, I don’t know—and I lean my head back and release a string of profanities toward the snow-streaked sky.

A couple passing with their two kids—both bundled up like marshmallows, an older child holding the mom’s hand and a toddler in the dad’s arms—glance at me disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” I mutter, heat rushing to my face despite the cold.

“Merry Christmas,” the woman says, but the way she says it might as well mean go to hell.

Pretty sure I’m already there.

Gritting my teeth, I stomp back toward my apartment. The wind howls around me, matching the storm brewing in my chest. These past six months have been the toughest stretch of my life: moving to a new city where I don’t know a soul, working endless hours at the hospital, trying to study whenever I can scrape together a few minutes, all while battling the constant, gnawing worry that I shouldn’t even be here. That I, who once thought nothing could rattle me—not facing an icy double black diamond or throwing the last pitch in a championship game—have no business making life-or-death decisions. That I was fooling myself to think I could ever be someone’s doctor.

The one thing that’s kept me going is the promise of Christmas at home. Instead, I’m marooned in a winter wasteland, freezing and alone.

By the time I reach my building, I’m seething with pent-up agitation, every snow-covered step only adding fuel to the fire. The apartment building looms ahead like a scene from a frozen apocalypse—a snow-choked courtyard surrounded by hulking buildings, their darkened windows staring at me like empty eyes. Not a single light shines from any unit.

I barely know my neighbors—no time for small talk and socializing between shifts—but I assume they’re all celebrating elsewhere tonight. Or they were smart enough to get out of Chicago before it turned into a giant snow globe of misery. It’s the most desolate, cold, and achingly lonely scene I’ve ever encountered.

That’s when I spot them. The snowmen.

Someone must have built them earlier today, probably when this courtyard was still a winter wonderland. Now they stand there like deformed soldiers, their twig arms and lopsided faces mocking me.

With a burst of frustration, I kick the nearest one with my boot, watching it crumble into a pile of sad, icy chunks. A surge of grim satisfaction hits me. With a grunt, I target the next one with a bigger kick, sending its basketball-sized head flying in a flurry of white.

By the time I reach the third snowman, I’m practically vibrating with pure spite. I ball my gloved hand into a fist and smash it right through its smug, lumpy face. Snow explodes around me, and for a brief, ridiculous moment, I feel triumphant.

“Hey!”

A voice echoes from behind me.

I turn to see a light flicker on in one of the windows, illuminating a woman’s face, framed by dark hair.

“Should I be worried?” she calls.

Something about her is familiar. I stare up at her, confused, until it hits me: she’s the woman I keep seeing around the building. She’s hard to miss, with that wild, curly dark hair and big, bright eyes. Just last week, I saw her helping an older couple in our building carry their groceries in, her laughter floating down the hall and bringing a genuine smile to my face for the first time that day.

I’ve thought about saying something to her more times than I can count. But with my long hours, late nights, and barely any sleep, I haven’t had the energy—or the guts—to even try.

“Huh?” I manage, still dazed.

She gestures at the toppled snowmen behind me. “Am I next on your hit list?”

A surprised laugh bursts out of me. “Nah, you’re safe—unless you’re made of the same stuff ruining my holiday plans.”

She laughs, and a flicker of warmth spreads through me, like a candle igniting in the dark.