She has been watching the icicles grow for weeks. From her bedroom window, she has the perfect view. There aren’t many left, most of them have gone during practice. There’s one in particular she thinks’ll do the trick.
‘Vicky, downstairs. I’m leaving.’
‘I’ll take the school bus.’
She boils the kettle and pours water into the mug. Not too much, she doesn’t want it to fall too fast.
Downstairs, he stomps doorward. She begins the countdown. Throws the water at the icicle. He opens, then slams the door, making the house shake.
The icicle doesn’t fall.
He lives another day.