Frostbitten Futures

Christmas plans unravelled quicker than a cheap bauble string at the Winnipeg train station, where the only thing moving was the clock, and even that felt spiteful.

"Twenty-seven hours, Mum? Are you actually kidding?" Pippa’s voice, usually a bright, clear bell, came out with a reedy crack, a direct mirror to the 'DELAYED' notice flickering ominously on the main departures board. The 'ETA: Unknown' next to her train number, 692, bound for Churchill, felt less like an estimate and more like a personal affront. Her duffel bag, packed tight with Christmas jumpers and a slightly crushed gingerbread man, suddenly felt like a dead weight dragging her down to the grimy linoleum floor.

Angela ran a hand through her already dishevelled blonde hair, a puff of cold air escaping her lips as she sighed. "Don’t look at me like I personally conjured a blizzard, Pippa. This is… this is fine. It’s character-building." She attempted a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, which were already scanning the heaving mass of disgruntled travellers, as if seeking an escape route through the sheer force of maternal will.

Pippa, at nine, considered 'character-building' an adult euphemism for 'utterly dreadful.' She scraped the toe of her boot against a stray piece of confetti, probably from someone’s optimistic pre-Christmas send-off. The station hummed with a low, frustrated thrum, a sound that started in the stomach and vibrated up through the sternum, just like when she had to sit through Aunt Mildred’s annual slide show of her petunias. And speaking of which…

"Oh, for crying out loud," a voice like gravel over ice chips cut through the din. Great-Aunt Mildred, a formidable woman whose primary mode of communication was complaint, materialised beside them, her tartan scarf pulled so tightly around her neck she resembled a rather indignant, plaid turtle. "I told your father, Angela, I *told* him not to book us on this… this northern ice-cube shuttle. Never punctual, never has been. A waste of good money and even better knitting time."

Pippa subtly rolled her eyes. Mildred’s knitting time was apparently sacrosanct, more important than, say, the structural integrity of the Canadian railway system. "At least we’re all here, Aunt Mildred," Angela said, her voice strained, already performing the familiar tightrope walk of placating her aunt while maintaining a semblance of sanity. "We’ll make the best of it."

"The best of what?" Mildred gestured vaguely with a gloved hand towards the overflowing bin by the Tim Hortons, which now smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation. "Waiting? In this… this echoing cavern of despair? I’ve seen livelier funerals, dear."

Pippa snorted, then quickly smothered it behind her mitten, pretending to cough. Angela shot her a look. Pippa met it with wide, innocent eyes, a skill honed over years of sibling rivalry and mild scholastic rebellion. She found a vacant bench near a perpetually blinking vending machine, its interior lights casting a faint, sickly glow on the dust motes dancing in the stale air.

"Alright, don’t sulk," Angela said, carefully balancing their three suitcases and a suspiciously lumpy carry-on. "We’ll get you that new book. What was it? 'The Adventures of Captain Calamity and the Space-Pirate Squirrels' or something equally improbable?"

"Captain Calamity and the Galactic Gloop-Globber!" Pippa corrected, her spirits lifting a fraction. A new book was a powerful weapon against boredom, even Aunt Mildred-level boredom. She pulled out her worn copy of 'The Secret Garden' from her backpack, finding the dog-eared page where she'd left off, but the words swam, refusing to settle.

Just then, a booming, jovial voice shattered the simmering quiet. "Well, well, if it isn’t the intrepid Arctic explorers! Heard you were going to be a while, so I brought reinforcements!" Uncle Donnie, a man who believed every situation could be improved by a loud laugh and a tray of lukewarm mini-sausage rolls, bustled towards them. He was a human-sized, tweed-clad sunbeam, a stark contrast to Mildred's perpetual cloud.

"Donnie!" Angela exclaimed, a genuine smile finally breaking through her weary expression. "What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't let my favourite sister and niece face a blizzard-induced siege unarmed, could I?" Donnie winked at Pippa, who managed a small, genuine grin. He held up a plastic bag, jingling slightly. "Emergency provisions! And a deck of cards! We'll have a proper family jamboree!"

Mildred, however, merely sniffed. "A jamboree of disappointment, more like. And those sausage rolls look suspiciously like the ones from the corner shop. Didn't even heat them, did you? Barbaric."

Donnie’s cheer didn't falter. "Nonsense, Mildred! They’re 'rustic'! Adds to the adventure! Think of it as… a pre-Christmas pre-party! We're stuck, yes, but we're stuck *together*!"

Pippa watched her family, a strange tableau of stoicism, exasperation, and misplaced optimism. Her mother was already fumbling for the cards, a glimmer of relief on her face. Mildred was meticulously inspecting a sausage roll, as if searching for proof of its sub-standard origin. Donnie was attempting to stack their suitcases into a makeshift table. The whole thing was profoundly silly.

---

### The Waiting Game's Rules

Hours bled into one another, marked by the increasing frequency of delayed train announcements and the growing piles of discarded coffee cups. The station had transformed from a transit hub to a peculiar kind of refugee camp. Children, previously glued to screens, now chased each other in weary circles around the less-vigilant adults. A man in a Santa hat had started strumming a ukulele, badly. Every so often, the loudspeaker crackled, offering apologies that sounded increasingly hollow.

"The green one! No, Mum, not that one. The other green one!" Pippa pointed, her finger hovering over a card in Angela’s hand. They were playing 'Crazy Eights' on an upturned suitcase, Donnie providing a running, colour commentary of his own terrible card decisions. Mildred sat a few benches away, pointedly knitting a particularly unforgiving-looking grey scarf, occasionally tutting at Donnie’s loud pronouncements.

"I had to play the red three, Pippa, you played a red six last turn!" Angela argued, though her lips twitched into a smile. The distraction was working, a fragile bubble of normalcy in the general malaise. "And don’t make that face. You look like your father when he’s trying to assemble flat-pack furniture."

Pippa grinned. "It’s my thinking face. For world domination. And winning card games." She slammed down a green eight. "Change it to blue!"

Donnie groaned dramatically. "A tactical genius! We're doomed, Angela! Absolutely doomed! I've been undone by a nine-year-old and her unparalleled grasp of primary colours!"

Mildred’s needles clicked faster. "Honestly, Donnie. Must you be so dramatic? It’s a simple card game. The world is not ending, though the state of our rail service certainly suggests it might be."

"Lighten up, Mildred!" Donnie called back, undeterred. "It's Christmas! Or, it will be. Eventually. We’re just having a very… extended advent calendar experience!"

Pippa, despite herself, chuckled. Uncle Donnie was ridiculous, but he was *their* ridiculous. She felt a familiar warmth, a strange, comforting bubble forming around them, distinct from the shivering frustration of the other travellers. It was a family bubble, thick with shared history and predictable eccentricities.

The hours ticked past. The station’s cleaning staff, looking increasingly harried, tried to navigate the obstacle course of sleeping bags and makeshift picnic blankets. The ukulele man had started taking requests, now singing a surprisingly good rendition of 'Jingle Bell Rock'. Pippa had finished her book, then half of Donnie's second-hand copy of 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea', the pages smelling faintly of old coffee and Donnie's cologne. She even tried sketching the various faces of boredom around her – a man with a beard shaped like a cloud, a woman whose entire body seemed to be melting into her chair.

Her stomach rumbled, a deep, dissatisfied growl. The sausage rolls were long gone. The vending machine was now stubbornly refusing to accept dollar coins, flashing an infuriating 'EXACT CHANGE ONLY' message. Even Angela’s emergency supply of crackers had dwindled to mere crumbs.

"Right," Angela said, standing up and stretching with a groan that seemed to echo the general weariness of the station. "This won't do. We can’t survive on hope and lukewarm mini-sausage rolls, can we? Pippa, stay here with Aunt Mildred and Uncle Donnie. I'm going to investigate the food situation. Surely, *surely* there's something open nearby. Or at least something that isn't… stale."

Mildred looked up from her knitting, a flicker of something almost resembling concern in her eyes. "Be careful, Angela. It's properly blowing out there. And don't come back with anything… exotic. I have a delicate constitution."

"Don’t worry, Mildred, I’ll bring you back something wonderfully bland!" Angela called over her shoulder, already pushing her way through the thickening crowd towards the main doors. A blast of icy wind howled through the automatic doors as she exited, carrying with it the smell of exhaust fumes and fresh snow.

Pippa watched her mother disappear, a sudden, unfamiliar prickle of apprehension in her chest. The station, for all its chaos, felt safe. Outside, the world was a blur of white and cold, a place where trains got stuck and Christmas plans went sideways. She turned to Donnie and Mildred, who were now engaged in a fierce, whispered debate about the best way to rig a blanket fort. The thought of being left behind for an unspecified amount of time, with only these two highly opinionated adults for company, was… unsettling. Especially if hunger really set in.

"Aunt Mildred," Pippa began, her voice small. "What if… what if Mum gets stuck out there too? What if everything closes?"

Mildred paused, her needles still. Donnie stopped trying to tie a scarf to a luggage rack. They both looked at Pippa, and for the first time that day, the humour seemed to drain from Donnie’s face. He patted Pippa’s shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture.

"Don’t you worry, Pip," Donnie said, but his smile was a little wobbly. "Your mum's a resourceful woman. She’ll be back. She always is. But…" He glanced at Mildred, then back at Pippa. "Maybe we should… make sure she's got everything she needs. For her… expedition."

"Like what?" Pippa asked, her eyes widening. The idea of an 'expedition' sounded a lot more serious than 'popping out for a sandwich.'

"Like a map," Donnie mused, rubbing his chin. "And a list. A very specific list. Of edible things. And maybe… a distress flare."

Pippa looked around the station, then back at her great-aunt and uncle. Her stomach gave another, louder rumble. It seemed the Christmas journey had taken an unexpected detour, and a new mission was already underway. This wasn't just about waiting anymore; it was about survival, and perhaps, a truly legendary quest for a decent supper.

---

### The Procurement Protocols

"Right then, Aunt Mildred, Uncle Donnie," Pippa declared, pushing her half-read 'Captain Calamity' book aside. "We need a plan. And probably some proper snacks. This is going to be epic."