She would likely be dead before the setting of the sun. As she fly-cycled through the air of Antipodia, just above the poisonous cloud that choked the surface of her home, Ngu’s thoughts turned in rhythm with her cranking arms: the cloud of death, her family gone, friends gone, coworkers gone. Who had sent the cloud? Where did it come from? What was it made of? Why did that matter?

The dark grey cloud, a couple of metres below her, waited to swallow her up like it had devoured every other life she’d ever cared about. And then she thought of him and felt guilt in her stomach for not thinking of him before—Anglor, her pet mousticke, stuck in his little cage in her apartment, choking to death as the cloud rolled in. How devastating to think that she’d never kiss Anglor’s little whiskered face again.

Everyone in Antipodia used—no! She corrected herself with sad, angry bitterness. Had used, had used, had because they were all dead now.

In the days of my youth, decades before a global pandemic changed the way we perceive everything, there were a few special, glorious days even in the depths of winter—especially in the depths of winter. On these special days, the weather gods smiled on children, both good and bad, and forced schools to close their doors, sending down the blessing of an unexpected holiday along with all of the snowfall clogging the city’s streets. Adults couldn’t appreciate them—too many responsibilities, official or otherwise; too much awareness of the dangers of city-stopping weather. Any joy from having the day off (if they had the day off) was tainted by worry and concern.

But for a kid, a snow day is an unadulterated joy, the pleasure heightened by being unpredictable and unexpected, a half-weekend—sometimes a full weekend, sometimes longer!—multiplied and dropped into the middle of a week, a day spent playing in the mountain of snow in the front yard, or toasty warm at home with one’s Nintendo or collection of much-read Spider-mans.