About the Book
The woman looked dreadfully cold, even as she leaned into the early-August night. She didn’t shiver, she didn’t look like the type to shiver, and she didn’t cower into herself reaching for warmth. But something about her stood out to me. She was stricken with the kind of chill that ironed her clothing every morning into a form-fit cage, that pulled her face inwards to a singular, mousey point, that hollowed out cheekbones and desaturated her skin. Even as she brought a cigarette to her lips, and let the embers leak into her lungs, her bones were inlaid with a permafrost that wouldn’t melt away.