Rodney Morse

The Minnesota wind cut across Rodney’s dark skin like a blade, sharp and merciless, forcing a shiver straight through his bones as he trudged forward through the ever-growing piles of snow collecting around his boots. Each step felt heavier than the last, the snow clinging stubbornly to his soles as he pushed on, eyes locked on the familiar brown UPS van waiting across the street like a cruel promise of temporary shelter. By the time he reached it, his fingers were already stiff and aching. He grabbed the handle with numb hands and yanked the driver’s side door open with more force than necessary, slamming it shut behind him before collapsing into the seat. The leather was ice-cold, seeping through his clothes and settling into his spine as he exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging.

“God, I swear my fucking fingers are going numb,” Rodney muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand down his tired face, dragging his palm over stubble and dark circles earned from too many long shifts and too little rest. He stared out through the fogging windshield, the world beyond buried under thick white snow, lights glowing softly in nearby houses like something out of a postcard. A dream scene—just not for him.

It was already bad enough that he had to work the day before Christmas, but to be out here in this weather too? It felt damn near suicidal. The heater, which barely worked on a good day, wheezed weakly as it pushed out air that was only slightly less cold than the storm outside. The van felt more like a freezer than a workplace. His tan hoodie, the UPS logo stretched across the chest, offered minimal protection, the fabric doing little to keep the chill from sinking into his skin.

Rodney should’ve been home right now. He should’ve been curled up in his own space, surrounded by the familiar chaos of his siblings, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, some stupid Christmas movie playing on repeat in the background. The kind everyone pretended not to like but watched anyway. But no—Christmas Eve and a full-blown snowstorm hadn’t slowed the orders down. If anything, they’d only piled higher, the world demanding packages delivered no matter the cost.

“One last stop, one last stop and then I can finally go home,” he repeated silently, like a prayer, adjusting himself in the seat before jamming the key into the ignition. He fumbled with it for a moment, cursing softly as the engine hesitated, the cold making it work harder than usual. Finally, the van sputtered before roaring weakly to life, vibrating beneath him as he pulled back onto the road.

The weather continued to worsen, snow whipping against the windshield as the van lurched over uneven patches of road, every bump jarring his tired body. By the time he reached the final address, his patience was hanging by a thread. He parked, killed the engine, and sat there for a brief moment, gathering what little energy he had left.

With a grunt, Rodney leaned over and grabbed the long package from the back—awkward and heavier than it had any right to be. Hoisting it against his side, he stepped back out into the storm, boots sinking deeper into the snow than before. The wind bit at his face as he dragged himself—and the package—up the walkway toward the front door, each step slower than the last. Reaching the porch, he shifted the weight in his arms and rang the doorbell, letting out a heavy sigh as he waited, breath fogging in the freezing air.