The ever-present wind did a reasonable job of masking the sound of the zipper and she sat down on the snowy ice, removed her right mitten to expose the fingerless hand warmer underneath, and started to draw.
“Mirka.”
She looked up from her nearly completed drawing at her Mother’s call. “Oh, thanks,” she said, setting the pencil in her lap and reaching with a hand that showed red fingertips poking from her glove to take the piece of chocolate.
“It looks like your hand is getting a bit chilled. How’s the drawing coming?”
