Effie felt like the last woman left alive, and maybe she was — she hadn’t seen another soul since the blizzard began. It had been screaming outside the cabin for more than a month, and all that remained in her larder were a cup of flour and a pinch of yeast, enough to make a small loaf of French bread.
She raised her fingers to her throat and closed them around the locket containing an old photograph of her beloved Jake, who had died in a long ago war before they could wed.
“Soon,” she whispered. “We’ll be together soon.”