I sit out there until Emily begins searching for me. I want to go home-if I can still call it that-but I have no motivation to unfold my stiff limbs from the position I'm in. So I sit, hugging my knees to my chest, feeling utterly spent, until I hear my foster mother calling, "Callie? Calypso? Where are you, honey?"

I stand up stiffly, feeling utterly spent. "I'm here," I call back dully.

Emily crashes through the underbrush, followed by Mark. "Oh, thank God. You were out here for hours?"

"I hadn't left this rock since I got here," I say, gesturing to it. I don't tell them that I spent those hours waiting for a sign from the Elder Gods, something that showed me their pity, something that I didn't get while I was out here, unless you take more snow as a sign of pity. I don't.

"You look frozen! Come on, come on, we need to get you home and warm you up. Oh, honey, why did you spend so much time out here? You could've caught a cold!"

A) Spending time indoors, in close quarters, is how colds spread. B) While my immune system is very strong against Azeran diseases, it is unfamiliar with human diseases, but a rather nasty cold is the least of my worries. I'm sure I won't react badly to the medicine that humans give to each other. I haven't gotten poisoned from any human food that I've eaten so far, why should medicine affect me?

I shrug. "A cold's a cold. I've got a strong immune system."

"Well, still. Come here, Callie, we'll get you in the car."

I walk cautiously to avoid slipping (how did I run through this slush?). Emily takes my elbow and doesn't let go until we get to the grey Elantra.

Nobody talks during the three minute car ride. Once I got to the Colonial, I immediately take off to my room. I crawl into sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Leo's and curl up under the covers. Gradually, the numbness goes away and I fall asleep, the occasional tear still trickling down my face.

There's got to be something bothering Callie. I just wish I knew what it was.

It can't be the ETL, I think. Something else is going on in her head. Something else is bothering her. Maybe there's a reason why she doesn't want to talk about her past.

In other words, I have reached no other conclusion than one that I reached before.

I lean forward in the recliner, resting my head in my hands. There has got to be something, something that my gut isn't picking up. Think, think, think!

Mom stands up and makes for the stairwell. Dad stands up too. "Don't you go and bother her, Emily."

"I'm not gonna bother her," Mom says evenly, though she doesn't meet his eye. "I just want to make sure that she's okay. I won't go in her room."

Dad frowns but sits back down. Mom climbs the stairs slowly, and Dad looks at me. "Pretty rough day, huh?"

"Pretty rough couple days, I'd say," I respond, looking out the window next to me. The white snow is brilliantly contrasted against the darkening sky.

"I hope that girl's okay," Dad comments, settling into his favorite armchair. "Though, judging by her behavior, I'd guess that she isn't. She's stressed out, poor thing. The way she acts, it's almost as if she's lived through a huge war."

"She's asleep," Mom announces from the top of the stairs. "Tuckered out, poor baby."

"I think we should follow through with her request," Dad says.

"What request?"

"The one she made before her walk. She wanted to meet with the ETL, remember? To shed some light on things."

"Do you think that will put an end to her stress?" Mom asks skeptically.

"Maybe. It's worth a shot, isn't it?"

Frown wrinkles form on Mom's forehead, but she says, "I'll consider making a meeting after this snow goes away."

***

The snow doesn't stop until tomorrow morning. Callie, looking a little more cheerful, helps Mom bake cookies inside-Mom's favorite pastime on a snowy day is making food-while Dad and I shovel the driveway. It's almost as if last night never happened. Though Callie is still a little stand-offish, she's almost back to her regular, sarcastic self.

I say almost because she's become quite withdrawn. Her large grey eyes look faraway, like her mind's somewhere else. Occasionally anger or hope flashes through them, though. She joins in conversation like usual, but it seems like she's not focused on it.

I shrug off my snow covered jacket and hang it in the hall closet. The smell of chocolate-chip cookies fill the house, and Dad leans over to whisper to me, "Think we can eat 'em all?"

"Doubt it," I mutter. "The bakers both have a sweet tooth."

"Yeah, but we shoveled. Maybe they'll take pity on us."

"Probably not," I disagree.

"Yeah, they'll probably pull some crap about how guys have it so easy, blah blah blah, shoveling's better than periods or giving birth, blah blah blah, being a girl is painful enough to warrant all the cookies, blah blah blah, guys complain too much, blah blah, blah."

"You're complaining right now!" Mom shouts from the kitchen. "You're complaining about how much girls complain!"

"I didn't complain about how much girls complain," Dad argues jokingly. "I complained about how they never take any pity on men."

"Take pity, my ass. Men should take pity on us."

"Oh, yes, because staying in a warm house baking cookies is so much worse than shoveling." Dad unlaces his boots and walks through the living room to the kitchen. He kisses Mom, who's cleaning the dishes.

"Honestly, though, how was the snow?" Mom says casually. A little too casually.

"You know, cold, wet, slippery..."

"Was it powdery? Heavy? How bad is it?"

"You're probably not gonna have school Monday," Dad says, placing a hand on my curls.

"Dang it," I say with a grin. I glance to the corner, where Callie stands, sipping a cup of hot cocoa. She smiles at me, little dimples appearing on her cheeks. She wears a cozy blue-and-grey sweater and blue jeans, even though she didn't really have to get dressed today. Her wavy bob is clipped back behind her left ear (she had long hair when she came here, but a week ago, Mom took her shopping and she returned with this haircut. I personally think it suits her better). She raises her eyebrows at me and sticks out her tongue. I return the gesture, and she makes a face at me.

"Why you making faces at me?" I whine jokingly.

"You are complaining about me making faces," she says with a smirk. "Guys complain too much."

"You're a jerk," I complain, snagging the cup of cocoa from her. "Gimme some of that."

She takes the mug back. "You ask Emily to make some, then."

"I already made some, so you can stop fighting with her, Mark," Mom says, handing me a mug of my own.

"Cheers," I say, raising the cocoa high. She mimics the gesture and we both take a sip.

"I have experienced winter not for a long time," she says.

"You mean you haven't experienced winter for a long time," Dad says. "Little less confusing, kid."

"Where did you live before here? Florida?" I ask.

Her pale cheeks flush a brilliant red for some odd reason. "No, not-not Florida. Somewhere...somewhere else."

"Where?" I repeat.

She suddenly becomes very interested in her mug of cocoa. It dawns on me then. The second her past is brought up, she pulls into herself.

"I envy you," I tell her. "I'd rather live without all the snow."

"I think that it is pretty," she says quietly. She half-smiles. "I am used to it not, though."

"Not used to it," Dad corrects again. "You really need to learn the correct placement of 'not'."

"I am not used to it," she repeats.

"Well, I like snow at the beginning," Mom says. "But after mid-January, I'm ready for spring."

"If you had to shovel, dear, you would be sick of snow after the first snow fall," Dad shoots back.

I glance at Callie. She watches the whole exchange with a look of mild amusement and-is that nostalgia?-on her face. I wonder where her mind is right now. Then her face falls.

What are you thinking about, Callie? What are you thinking about that makes you happy one moment and sad the next? Why don't you share? Why won't you?

I take another sip of the hot chocolate. It's not of that packaged crap-Mom makes it homemade, with actual chocolate and milk. She always makes two kinds-plain and what she calls "Mexican hot chocolate", with cinnamon and cayenne pepper. The spicy one being my favorite of the two, my mom had handed me a cup of Mexican hot cocoa. The combination of the spices and the temperature of the drink warm me up almost immediately.

"Did you try the spicy hot chocolate, Callie?" I ask her, changing the subject.

"I did li-did not like it," she says, catching herself on the placement of "not" just in time.

"Really? How come?"

"Too spicy."

"Ahhh. Not a fan of spice, are you?"

She grimaces. "It burns."

I dimly wonder if she's even heard of spicy food before.

"That's exactly why I like it," I say. "The burn. It clears out the sinuses real quick."

"He's weird," Dad whispers to Callie.

"He is your son," she replies.

"Yeah, but he's also Emily's."

"Hey!"

Callie's smile is brief before the lost look returns. I'm guessing she's still hurting from the past few days.

I pass my mug to her. "Try another sip. You might acquire a taste for it."

She takes the mug and hesitates before bringing it to her lips. She sips it and makes a face. "I still don't like it."

"That's fine," Mom says as Callie gives me the mug back.

"Do you guys think there'll be snow on Christmas?" Dad asks.

"When do we ever?" Mom asks. "We have a white Thanksgiving and a brown Christmas."

"Christmas?" Callie says blankly.

"You've never heard of Christmas?" Dad says incredulously.

"I have, I just forget what is it about."

"It's a holiday where we eat a bunch of chocolates-" her entire face lights up at that- "and other candies and food that's not good for you, and you decorate the house with lights and stuff, and the night between Christmas eve and Christmas Day, December 24th and 5th, some fat guy named Santa Claus swings by your house in his sleigh, driven by flying reindeer, and goes down the chimney-" I point at the fireplace- "and gives you presents made by elves."

"And where does he come in if there's no fireplace?" Callie asks.

"Then we leave a key under the doormat," Dad says.

"It's just a fun holiday," Mom says. "Family time, good music-"

"Presents," I add.

Mom ignores me. "Good food, good cheer all around...you'd love it, Callie. You loved Thanksgiving, remember?"

"Is there a lot of food this holiday?" she asks.

"And presents," I repeat. "Given to you by a magic man."

Callie raises her eyebrows. "Magic man? Who really gives the presents?"

"The parents," I say.

"That's not true," Dad says quickly.

"I believe it," Callie says.

"Oh, my God!" Mom exclaims, clapping her hands to her mouth. "We forgot to put up the tree! We always do that the weekend after Thanksgiving!"

"Tree?" Callie repeats incredulously. "You put up a tree?"

"And decorate it," I supply.

"O-kay," Callie says. Then she mutters, "This holiday is ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous!" I protest. "It's fun! You get presents under the tree!"

Callie rolls her eyes and finishes off her hot chocolate. An indulgent smile spreads across her face, the happiest I've seen her today. Then her shoulders slump and she sighs.

"Not enough sugar?" I ask.

"There's never enough sugar for you," Mom says.

"No, just...it is something else," she mumbles. And like everything else, she doesn't elaborate.