Sharon 's younger than my Mom. She's got a pony tail and rosy cheeks, and she reminds me of the student teacher from the college here in town that's helping my regular teacher. Sharon always shows more interest in talking to me instead of to my parents. She makes me feel special and grown up, and she always smiles and tells me I'm the best carrier she's got. But last Monday she wasn't smiling. She looked like she hadn't slept all night, and her cheeks were pale. She said so many carriers had quit and no new carriers wanted to take their place that the paper was worried, like it might go out of business. She said her boss had told her to go around to all the carriers that had quit and tell them the paper would pay them three dollars extra a week if they stayed, but my Mom wouldn't let me answer for myself. My Mom said no. But it was like Sharon hadn't heard. She said the Gazette would promise that any morning it snowed the papers didn't have to be delivered, and I could see my Dad agreed it was a good idea, but my Mom kept shaking her head from side to side. Then Sharon rushed on and said at least let her have a few days to find a replacement for me, which was going to be hard because I was so dependable, and that made my heart beat funny. Please give her a week, she said. If she couldn't find somebody else by next Monday, then I could go ahead and quit and she wouldn't bother us again. But at least let her have the chance – her voice sounded thick and chokey – because her boss said if she couldn't find kids to do the routes he'd get somebody else to do her job.

Her eyes looked moist, like she'd been out in the wind. All of a sudden I felt crummy, like I'd let her down. I wanted to make myself small. I couldn't face her. For the first time, she paid more attention to my parents than to me, blinking at my Mom, then my Dad, sorta pleading, and my Mom didn't seem to breathe. Then she did, long and deep like she felt real tired. She said my Dad and her would have to talk about it, so they went to the kitchen, and I tried not to look at Sharon while I heard them whispering, and when they came back, my Mom said okay, for a week, till Sharon could find a replacement but no longer. In the meantime, if it was snowing, I wasn't going out to deliver the papers. Sharon almost cried then. She kept saying thanks, and after she left, my Mom said she hoped we weren't making a mistake, but I knew I wasn't. I figured out what had been bothering me – not quitting, but doing it so fast, without making sure my customers got their paper and explaining to them and saying good-bye. I was going to miss them. Funny how you get used to things.

The next morning, I didn't feel nervous as much as glad to have the route back, at least for a few more days. It was one of the last times I'd see my customers' houses that early, and I tried to memorize what it was like, taking the paper to the Carrigans who still kept arguing, and Mr. Blanchard crying for his wife, and Mr. Lang still drinking beer for breakfast. My Dad went with me that Tuesday, and you could see other parents helping their kids do the routes. I'd never seen so many people out so early, and in the cold, their whispers and their boots squeaking were as clear as the sharp reflection of the streetlights off the drifts. Nothing happened, though the police kept looking for the boys who'd disappeared. And Wednesday, nothing happened either. The fact is, by Saturday, everything had gone pretty much back to normal. It was never snowing in the morning, and my Dad says people have awful short memories, 'cause we heard how a lot of paper boys who'd quit had asked for their routes back and a lot of other kids had asked for the routes that needed a carrier. I know in my own case I'd stopped feeling scared. Pretty much the opposite. I kept thinking about Monday and how it was closer all the time and maybe I could convince my Mom to let me go on delivering.

Saturday was clear. When my Dad came in from the driveway, carrying the bundle of papers, he said it wasn't hardly cold at all out there. I looked through the kitchen window toward the thermometer on the side of the house, and the light from the kitchen reached it in the dark. The red line was almost at thirty-two. I wouldn't need my ski mask, though I made sure to take my mitts, and we packed the papers in my sack, and we went out. That early, the air smelled almost sweet from being warmer than usual, and under my longjohns, I started to sweat. We went down Benton, then over to Sunset, and started up Gilby. That's the hardest street 'cause it's got this steep long hill. In summer, I'm always puffing when I ride my bike to the top, and in winter, I have to stop a minute going up with my heavy boots and coat on. How we did it was my Dad took one side of the street and I took the other. We could see each other because of the streetlights, and by splitting the work, we'd do the route twice as fast. But we'd got a note about a new customer that morning, and my Dad couldn't find the house number. I kept delivering papers, going up the hill, and the next thing I knew, I'd reached the top. I looked back down, and my Dad was a shadow near the bottom.

It wasn't snowing, so I figured I'd do a few more papers. My next customer was over on Crossridge. If you went by car, you had to drive back down Gilby hill, then go a block over to Crossridge, then drive all the way up to the top of the other hill. But if you went on foot or bike, you could cut through a sidewalk that one of my customers has in his yard, connecting Gilby and Crossridge, so I went through there and left the paper.

And I suddenly felt frozen-scared 'cause flurries began to fall. I'd been looking at the dark sky from time to time. There wasn't a moon, but the stars had been bright, twinkling real pretty. I looked up fast now, and I couldn't see the stars. All I saw were these thick black clouds. I swear even in the dark I could see 'em. They were twisting and heaving like something was inside rolling and straining to bust loose. The flurries got bigger. I should've remembered from school. Thirty-two: that's the perfect temperature for getting snow. My legs felt limp. I wasn't walking right from being scared. I tried to run, but I lost my balance and almost fell. The snow came fast now. I couldn't see the clouds because of it. It was falling so thick I couldn't even see the houses across the street. A wind started, and then it got worse and screechy. My cheeks hurt like something was burning them, but it wasn't heat. It was cold. The air had been sweet and warm, but now it was freezing, and the wind stung, and the snow felt like tiny bits of ice-cold broken glass.

I swung around looking for Dad, but I couldn't see the houses next to me. The snow kept pelting my face, and the wind bit so I kept blinking and tears filled my eyes. I wiped them with my mitts. That only made them blurry. Snow froze to my cheeks and hair. I moaned, wishing I'd worn my ski mask. The shriek of the wind was worse. I tried to yell for my Dad, but the gusting snow pushed the words back into my mouth. Then I couldn't see the sidewalk. I couldn't see my mitts in front of my face. All I saw was a wall of moving white. As cold as I felt, deep in my bones, my stomach burned. The more it felt hot, the more I shook. I yelled once more for my Dad and in a panic stumbled to find him.

I didn't know I was off the sidewalk till I hit Mr. Carrington's fence. It's sharp and pointy, like metal spears. When I banged against it, one of the points jabbed my chest. I felt it gouge me even through the padding of my coat. It pushed all the air out of me. I fell back into a drift where I felt like I was in quicksand, going deeper, scrambling to stand, but my heavy sack of papers held me down, and the snow kept piling on me. It went down my neck, like a cold hand on my back. It stung so hard I jumped up screaming, but the wind shrieked louder, and all I saw was the swirling snow around me in the dark.