Where The Ice Gives Way

Charlotte

Snow dusts the windshield in thin, whispering lines as the car coughs its way off the highway. The heater clicks and dies, and cold presses in from every seam. My breath fogs the glass, and I draw a circle with my sleeve, watching white swallow the road behind us.

The trees thin out, and the town rises up quiet and pale.

It’s nothing new. Each town we move to seems to look much the same. There’s the single diner that stays open all night, lights buzzing and windows fogged. One service station with a hand-painted sign that looks like it was put up in the sixties and hasn’t been touched since. A main street with a bakery, a bank, and a few shops that close early.

Then there are the houses.

This part is always wildly similar. We pass through the rich streets first because, of course, they’re closest to the centre. They have big fences, warm lights, and driveways already cleared. They are full of silver-spoon kids with room to breathe.

Then come the blue-collar families. The paint is peeling from the walls, but the yards are swept, and the cars are parked neatly. They’re the people who work hard and take care of what they have, even when it’s old.

Then there’s the edge of town, where the road thins and the streetlights space themselves out. Where people don’t have to see you struggling, this is where the poor, the unlucky and the single parents live.

Oh, and us, all of the above.

“Hey, Lotty.”

My twin brother, Charlie, nudges me with his boot from the backseat. I tear my gaze from the window and look at him.

Snow has dampened his hair where it’s brushed the roof lining, making his curls darker than usual. His grin is already there, bright, stubborn and waiting for me.

“At least this place has ice.”

I smile and nod because I know what that means to him.

The last town was hot, dry and dusty, with not a rink in sight. Charlie had tried to make do with rollerblades, cracked asphalt and a borrowed stick, but it wasn’t the same. Growing up, when Mum was still alive, winter wrapped around us every day. She taught us to skate whenever she could, with hands on our backs and laughter carried on cold air.

We both loved it, but Charlie had a dream that dug in deeper.

Dad moved us as far away from anything that reminded him of her after she died, but every so often, he slips. He loses a job or gets arrested for something stupid. Then he lands another job in a town that either works for him or for Charlie.

Hockey is Charlie’s way out.

If he’s good enough, maybe he escapes the cycle, and hopefully, he will take me with him.

Dad turns up a narrow street and the car skids, tyres whining, before settling crooked in a drift at the end of a long drive. Snowbanks rise on either side, and Dad swears, shoves the door open and the cold crashes in.

“Out.”

Charlie and I scramble.

Snow soaks straight through my sneakers. My toes burn, then go numb. Dad lurches past us, boots slipping, and starts up the drive without looking back.

The house waits at the top. It’s smaller than the others around it and sort of hunched in on itself. Its siding is warped and grey, and the porch is sagging under the weight of ice. One shutter hangs by a hinge, knocking softly against the wall in the wind. The yard is a mess of frozen weeds and old tools, half-buried in snow.

“Come on, Lotty,” Charlie says, already moving. “Let’s grab our stuff. We’ll dig the car out later.”

We each take one box, because that’s all we have. Cardboard softened by time and tape. The cold bites harder as we trudge up the drive and snow squeaks under our feet.

By the time we reach the porch, my legs feel stiff, and the front door sticks when Charlie shoves it open.

Inside smells like damp wood and old oil. Dad is already slamming cupboards. A door bangs before he storms past us, shoulder clipping Charlie and sending his box skidding across the floor.

“I’m going to town,” he says. “Pick a room.”

The door closes, and silence rushes in after him.

I set my box down and crouch, gathering Charlie’s things. I hand him one skate, and he takes the other. We tuck everything back and head upstairs.

The stairs creak loudly, the walls are scuffed, and a picture hook hangs empty on the musty walls. At the top, two doors sit side by side, far from the master bedroom.

We don’t say it, but we both know why we chose them.

Charlie drops his box and comes back a second later, leaning in my doorway with that same smirk.

“Wanna get the wolves out, sis?”

I set my box on the bed. The mattress sags in the middle like it’s already given up.

“You read my mind.”

Here’s the thing about my brother and me. We’re different. We’ve always known it. Our bruises fade too fast, and we can run longer than we should. Last year, on our sixteenth birthday, Dad was passed out on the couch, and the moon was high when our bones began to burn. We thought we were dying. Thought maybe Dad had poisoned us by accident.

Turns out we can turn into werewolves.

We don’t tell anyone about it, though; it’s ours. Maybe it’s a gift from Mum, a way to run, to breathe and disappear for a while.

Before we change, I take a slow walk through the room. The window rattles in its frame, and frost creeps along the edges of the glass like veins. A dresser sits crooked in the corner, one drawer missing its handle. There’s a stain on the ceiling where something once leaked and never got fixed.

I press my palm to the wall, and cold seeps straight through as the wind somewhere outside drags across the eaves.

The house feels tired, old and neglected… Much like me.

Charlie cracks the window and snow spills in, dusting the sill—the yard beyond slopes down into trees and beyond that into open land. There are no fences or lights, just white and shadow.

He looks at me, waiting, and I nod once.

We shed our clothes fast, hands shaking from cold and anticipation. The shift comes, as it always does: heat under the skin, joints snapping into something stronger. Fur bursts through, the room shrinks, and the window frame splinters as we push through.

Snow explodes around us as we land, paws sinking, then lifting, then flying.

We run.

The cold doesn’t hurt like this. The ground rolls under us, fast and open. Charlie keeps pace at my shoulder, a dark shadow against the white. We cut through drifts and trees, leap fallen logs, and leave the house and the road behind.

The moon hangs low, and our tracks braid together and vanish in falling snow.

For a while, there is only freedom, and us, running wild and free in it.