Wren and the Last Warm Stone
There was one stone left in the pouch, and it was still warm, and Wren had been thinking about it since lunch.
The warm stones lasted about a night each. Hers was for tonight. She had it planned: under the blanket, right against her feet, which had been cold since the mountain.
The old man at the crossroads was not asking for anything. That was somehow worse. He was just sitting there with his hands in his sleeves, and Wren could see him breathing out little clouds.
She walked past him.
She got about twenty steps.
"Don't," said Hollis, trotting to keep up. The goat was, as usual, being honest rather than kind. "You'll be cold. You were cold last night and you cried a bit."
"I didn't cry."
"You did a small one."
Wren stopped in the road. She could feel the stone through the pouch, that low steady heat, exactly as good as she'd been imagining.
She turned around and walked back and put it in the old man's hands without saying anything, because if she'd said anything she wasn't sure she'd have done it.
His face did something complicated.
Walking away, Wren's feet were already colder, and there wasn't any way around that. But there was something else too, up under her ribs, and it was warm, and she couldn't figure out for the life of her where it was coming from.