She woke in the night, her body twisted in the sweat-drenched sheets, her blood burning with remembered heat. Years had come and gone, some slow like the breaking of the ice in early spring, some fast like a sudden blizzard--but the fever still came this way. She rose quietly from the bed, tiptoed away, and stepped outside into the cool air. She could always tell when snow was coming, and on those nights when the fever burned brightest, the cold of the winter burned iciest too.
Standing on her porch, a breeze blowing about her, she lifted her arms, spinning a slow circle as the wind rose. Her hair, pale in the moonlight, shifted in the breeze. She tilted her head up to see the cool face of the moon staring back down at her. Her mouth opened to catch the first snowflake of whatever storm was on its way.
She smiled. The heat had passed again.
She turned to step back inside, but her husband was there, barefoot despite the chill, smiling and watching her.
"Come here," she whispered, and he came to stand beside her in the dark of the night. His arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled her closer. She sighed and closed her eyes. This here, this was the best of everything--the warmth of the pack, the joy of the winter sun, the promise of snow.