Don't Eat Yellow Snow

Sam is gonna di-ie. Sam is gonna di-ie,” Cathy sang. She seemed pleased.

Her younger brother jerked forward, gagging as his writhing tongue pushed through his slackened jaw. Cathy danced maniacally in circles, churning plumes of powdery snow high into the air.

“Don’t ya’ know, Don’t ya’ know,” Cathy kept repeating. “Don’ ya eat th’ yella snow.”

Catching the sun's reflection, the glassy beads of tears that had filled Sam's eyes shone like twin streams of molten silver as they rolled down his reddened, wind-chapped cheeks. A narrow channel of packed snow ran from the top of the hill until just past an amorphous patch of caramel-colored snow. .

He and Cathy had been running through the thick new layer of snow that carpeted the broad, grassy yard in front of their home. Moments ago, Sam dove headfirst, mouth wide open, down the steep sloped driveway, and stopped face-down, midway through the frozen puddle of what now appeared to be dog urine.

Cathy noticed it first, then doubled over in laughter.

Dad’s car was parked next to the stain; a trail of deep, oblong craters, imprinted with thick boot treads, led away from the yellow spot toward the garage.

The garage door was open and Sam could see Dad stooped over the snow blower, filling it with gasoline. A ribbon of spindly, nude tree branches towered above the garage, and against the gray winter sky, looked like a million icy cracks in the horizon.

“Daa-ad,” Cathy yelled. “Sam is drinking dog piss.”

“What?” Dad bellowed. Sam saw Dad turn his head, and squinting in the direction of Cathy’s voice, cupped a hand behind his ear.

“Sam drank dog piss," Cathy crowed. "Tell him he’s gonna die from rabies.”

Looking puzzled, Dad stood up and started walking toward them.

Sam was still feeling somewhat unsettled. Furrowing his brow, he ran a snowy glove across his cheeks, and crouched to get a better look at the yellow stain in the snow. He noticed a strangely, sweet taste in his mouth.

Approaching halfway to Sam and Cathy, Dad noticed Sam's odd expression, and nervously broke into a sprint.

"Everything OK?” he called.

Hearing an urgent edge in Dad’s tone Cathy stopped howling.

When Dad reached them, Sam was slowly running his tongue back and forth across his lips.

“Sam, are you OK?”, Dad repeated.

He bobbed his head up and down then asked: “Is dog piss supposed to taste good?”

Dad half yelped. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Sam pointed to the ground, directing Dad's attention to the patch of snow which Sam noticed was more a caramel color, not yellow as he first thought.

Sam asked, “I just want to know if dog piss supposed to taste good?”

Dad pondered the question for a moment then dissolved with laugher.

“That isn’t dog piss,” he said, catching his breath between gales. “That’s coffee from this morning. There was a little milk in it, so I poured it out before bringing it into the h....”

Suddenly, mid-peal, Dad's raucous laughter turned to a single, strangled gasp.

He swung his body toward Sam; his voice suddenly cracking; oddly high-pitched; Dad, in an uncharacteristically pleading tone, asked:

“Y...Sam... You didn’t...Sam, did you..." Tell me you didn’t touch the....?” "...touch the milk."

Dad's voice trailed off and he visibly shuddered as he saw a crimson wave rising on Sam's neck over the top of his scarf then up behind his ears.

“Oh, no! My God...No!....” Working to regain his calm, Dad looked straight into Sam's eyes.

"Sam," he asked, his voice now deeper and more subdued.. "Please. You need to let Daddy know if you touched the coffee. Did you touch it, Sam? Did you get any of the coffee, the milk, in...in your mouth...?

Sam opened his mouth, but made no sound.

Dad shouted, “Cathy...Oh, My God! Cathy ... Run...go to the house and get Sam’s Epi-pen. Run!! Tell Mom to call an ambulance!! Run!!”

Cathy stumbled, turned toward the house, then launched into a shrieking, arm-flailing gallop through the deep snow.

Sam was confused by the panic in Dad’s eyes.

“It’s OK, Dad” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m OK.”  Then he asked, “Dad, is that what milk tastes like?”

Sam heard his own question, in his mind. All Dad heard was the strangled gurgle of the last breath to escape Sam's clenching throat.

He turned his head and saw Cathy’s running silhouette against the creamy landscape.

"The snow is so bright," he thought. It's so clean.

Hardly noticing the scenery blend to a grainy blur, Sam watched the feathery white powder swirl peacefully, as it slowly faded to black.