And sandwiched between them—buried in the very center of the pile, wrapped in their heated electric throw (which was now dead) and the down comforter from their bed—was Barnaby.
My dog lifted his head and let out a soft woof.
“Dad!” I screamed, dropping my phone.
Dad blinked, his eyes unfocused. He tried to sit up, but he was stiff. “Son?” he whispered. The sound was like dry leaves scraping together. “Don’t… don’t let the dog out. It’s too cold.”
I scrambled to the thermostat. It was dead. I ran to the kitchen. The fridge was warm.
“They cut it at noon,” Mom whispered. She was fully awake now, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely speak.
“Why?” I choked out, pulling my heavy coat off and throwing it over them. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have paid it in five seconds!”
Dad looked down at Barnaby, who was licking his gloved hand.
“You have that big meeting,” Dad said. “We didn’t want to worry you. We thought we could make it to the first of the month.”
I looked at the kitchen table. The truth was scattered there in the beam of my flashlight.
