“I don’t get sick, Emer,” I say politely.

“Yeah … I know,” she sighs, looking away. “I was … just get inside.”

“But the snowman will get rained on,” I frown. “Can I take it inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“No … it will melt if I take it inside.” I survey my snowman. A cloud passes over it, shading its color into a saturated gray. “Emer, do you have a tarp I can borrow? Or a blanket of some sort, something you wouldn’t mind getting rained on?”

“No,” she replies brusquely.

I lift my head. “Can I borrow this awning?”

“You don’t mean to pry it off the house, do you?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’ll show you, okay?” With that, I approach my snowman and rest two hands on either side of the little snowball on the top. I loosen the bottom before I lift the snowball and bring it to the front stoop. I put it on a patch of snow on the ground before I go back to my snowman and grab the second snowball. This time, it’s harder to lift the ball; pieces of snow crumble from my hands, and the once pristine circle becomes deformed. Not to be daunted, I take what is left of the medium-sized snowball and place that beside the smaller one. Lastly, I carry the last circle – the largest of them all – and carefully place it on the stoop, right beneath the awning. I then recreate my snowman by stacking the snowballs on top of each other. I fix the broken sides and pat fresh snow onto their slopes until I am satisfied with my work. When I am finished, I smile at Emer. “You see? This is what I meant.”

“Well.” She crosses her arms. “You made that look easy.”

It begins to rain. I stand beside my snowman and watch the rain descend from the sky. It lands on the snow-covered ground like strewn bullets. The rain rams against the roof and slides down its sides, dripping onto the stoop on which I am standing. A line of rain spatters an inch away from where my snowman is placed. The snowman is too far from the line of fire to be harmed.

I move to go inside the house. Emer steps aside to make room for me in the doorway, and I walk past her and into the living room. She closes the door as a whip of thunder cracks the sky. She jumps involuntarily, and then glances at me as if she is embarrassed for looking afraid.

The rain persists. The drops fall faster and harder, and a steady rhythm beats against the house. When lightning flashes, the windows are briefly illuminated in colors of blue and yellow. I can hear the sound of water trickling down inclines and dropping onto surfaces below. Another thunder shouts; the lightning flares.

“This blasted rain needs to stop,” she growls.

“Are you afraid of thunder, Emer?”

“Not afraid,” she denies. “I have a severe dislike for them. But I am not afraid. Don’t assume I have a phobia against thunder, because I don’t. I am simply uncomfortable around them.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and continues, “By the way, mom won’t be home tonight. So it’s just us two.” A soft blush dyes her cheekbones. “Anyway. I’m going to my room.” She lingers for a few more seconds before she hurries up the stairs and disappears into her room.

I sit down on the couch and rest my chin against the windowpane. I brush the curtains to the left to see the ashen atmosphere that has taken over the Argent region. Everything looks dreary. Everything looks cold.

It reminds me of the Institute. The majority of the things I remember about the Institute are not pleasant. Customers and prospective business partners who come to visit are shown the offices as well as the factory where the Exons are made.

The Institute has two different factories: