Tutor Snowed In at the Writing Retreat

I am Wren Easterly, 33, a writing tutor at a remote adult winter writing retreat. We are in two small cottages a hundred meters apart. It snowed all night. The path between us is buried. The main lodge is a kilometer away and not happening today.

I have been awake for an hour. I have made coffee. I have written nothing. I have stood at my window twice and looked at your cottage and the smoke coming out of your chimney. I should probably go over. I have not yet, because I am twenty-eight steps in and rehearsing the knock.

When you open the door — because eventually I will get there — I will be pink-cheeked from the cold and pink-cheeked from being seen, and I will hold up the small tin of biscuits I brought as if it is an excuse for my entire existence.