The Frozen Fence

Stranded in the wasteland behind the subdivision, Toby and Mina face the crushing weight of a Tuesday gone wrong. A quest for snacks becomes a battle against gravity, gloom, and the unstoppable urge to giggle.

The snow wasn’t the nice kind. It wasn't the fluffy stuff that drifted down in Christmas movies or the packing kind that made good snowballs. It was old snow. It was angry snow. It had melted and refrozen into a jagged, grey crust that scraped against shins and crunched loudly enough to give away a position to any enemy within three blocks. A bitter wind whipped through the gap in the chain-link fence, smelling of wet asphalt and dead pine needles.

Toby lay face down in it. He wasn't moving. His blue puffer jacket, slightly too big and smelling faintly of basement mildew, was bunched up around his ears. One boot was wedged firmly in the V-shape of a frozen oak root, and the other was kicking weakly at the air.

"I am fallen," Toby mumbled into the ice. His voice was muffled, dramatic, and entirely miserable.

Mina stood over him. She was wearing a bright yellow coat that had a smudge of grease on the pocket and a hat with ear flaps that she refused to tie, so they flapped against her cheeks like sad bird wings. She looked down at him with the solemnity of a graveyard statue.

"Get up, soldier," Mina said. She tried to make her voice deep, like the guy in the video game her brother played, but it cracked. "The mission isn't over."

"It is," Toby said. He rolled onto his side, the crusty snow scratching his cheek. He didn't care. The cold felt kind of good. It matched the freezing hole in his chest where his heart used to be before fourth period. "I have sustained critical damage. To my soul."

Mina sniffed. Her nose was red and running, a distinct drip hanging precariously from the tip. She wiped it with a mitten that was already stiff with frozen snot. "Was it the haircut?"

Toby squeezed his eyes shut. The memory was too fresh. The buzzer. The slip of the barber’s hand. The gasp of the lady waiting in the chair next to him. "Do not speak of it. I look like a radish. A shaved radish."

"You do," Mina agreed. She wasn't being mean. She was just stating facts. That was the rule of the Wasteland. No lies. "But we have to get to the store. I need the gummies. The sour ones. If I don't have sour gummies, the darkness wins."

The darkness was the fact that Mina had tripped in the cafeteria that day. She hadn't just tripped; she had performed a full tactical slide into the trash cans, taking a tray of spaghetti with her. The sauce stain was still visible on her jeans, frozen into a stiff, reddish-brown armor plating on her knee.

Toby sighed. It was a long, rattling sound. He tugged his stuck boot. It didn't budge. The root had it. The earth was claiming him. "Leave me, Mina. Save yourself. Get the gummies. Tell my mom I... tell her I hated the meatloaf."

"I can't leave you," Mina said, grabbing the back of his jacket. She pulled. Her boots slipped on the icy ground, and she went down on one knee, crunching into the hard snow. "Ow. Stupid ice. Stupid world."

They stayed there for a moment, huddled in the grey light of late afternoon. The sun was going down, a pale, watery thing behind the clouds that offered zero warmth. A crow cawed from a telephone wire, mocking them. The highway noise from over the berm sounded like a giant, angry ocean.

"This is a tragedy," Toby said, staring at a dead leaf stuck in the ice near his nose. "We are tragic figures."

"Like in that play?" Mina asked, shifting her weight to keep the wetness from seeping through her snow pants. "The one where everyone drinks the poison?"

"Yes," Toby said. "Except our poison is life. And bad haircuts. And spaghetti pants."

"It wasn't just spaghetti," Mina whispered, her voice trembling with the theatrical weight of her shame. "There was pudding, Toby. Chocolate pudding. It got in my hair."

Toby gasped. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the root trapping his foot. "Not the pudding."

"The pudding," Mina confirmed darkly. She looked at the horizon, narrowing her eyes against the wind. "I had to wash it out in the bathroom sink. The water was cold. The soap smelled like pink sadness."

Toby slumped back down. This was indeed a dark timeline. He wriggled his foot again. The boot felt loose. If he pulled hard enough, his foot might come out, but then he’d be a sock-warrior in the snow, and that was a death sentence. Frostbite. Gangrene. amputation. He’d seen the pictures in health class.

"We have to move," Mina said, suddenly resolute. She stood up, brushing ice crystals from her knees. She grabbed Toby’s ankle—the free one—and yanked. "Operation Sugar Rush is active. I am commanding you to rise."

"You're pulling the wrong leg!" Toby shouted, flailing. He looked like a beetle flipped on its back. "The other one! The trap! Focus, Mina!"

Mina switched targets. She grabbed the stuck boot with both mittened hands. She gritted her teeth. She planted her feet. "On three. One. Two. ARGHHH!"

She pulled with all the strength of a ten-year-old fueled by humiliation and a desperate need for sugar. Toby kicked. There was a sucking sound, a tearing noise, and then a pop.

Toby flew forward. Mina flew backward. Toby face-planted into a drift of somewhat softer snow. Mina landed hard on her butt, sliding three feet down the slope until she hit the fence with a metallic *clang*.

Silence settled over the Wasteland.

Toby checked his feet. Two boots. Miracle. He scrambled up, wiping snow off his face. "I am free! The dungeon could not hold me!"

Mina groaned from the fence. "My butt," she said simply. "I think I broke it. I think my butt is shattered."

Toby rushed over to her, his movements clumsy in the thick snow pants. He offered a hand. "Can you walk? Or must I carry you? I can't actually carry you, you're too heavy with all those coats, but I can drag you."

Mina took his hand and hoisted herself up. She rubbed her lower back. "I can walk. Pain is just... weakness leaving the body. Or whatever."

They stood together, breathing hard. Clouds of white vapor puffed out of their mouths, vanishing instantly in the wind. They looked at the path ahead. It was a steep hill leading up to the back of the convenience store. It was covered in a sheet of ice that looked like a glazed donut from hell.

"The Vertical Limit," Toby whispered. He loved that movie title, even though he’d never seen the movie. It just sounded serious.

"We need gear," Mina said, patting her pockets. "I have... a chapstick. And a rock."

"I have a protractor," Toby said, patting his own pocket. He felt the hard plastic curve through the fabric. "And a half-eaten granola bar. It's oatmeal raisin."

"Disgusting," Mina said. "Keep it for emergency rations. In case we get trapped for weeks."

"Right." Toby zipped his jacket up higher, until it pinched his chin. "Let's climb."

They approached the hill. It wasn't actually a mountain—it was maybe twenty feet of embankment leading to the parking lot—but in the flat, grey light of winter, it looked impossible. The ice was streaked with dirt and tire tracks where older kids had tried to slide down on cardboard boxes.

Toby went first. He slammed his boot into the ice, trying to kick a hold. His foot bounced off, and he slid sideways, grabbing a handful of dead weeds to stop himself. The weeds ripped out of the ground with a dry snapping sound.

"Careful!" Mina yelled. "Don't look down!"

"I'm three inches off the ground, Mina!" Toby yelled back, his voice high and tight. "I'm looking at my own knees!"

He scrambled, digging his fingers into the frozen mud. The cold seeped through his gloves immediately. It bit at his fingertips, a sharp, stinging pain. He grunted, heaving himself up another foot. He found a discarded soda can frozen into the earth and used it as a stepping stone.

"I'm making progress!" he shouted. "I see the summit! I see the dumpster!"

Mina followed. She was more agile, moving on all fours like a spider in a snowsuit. She crawled past Toby, her breath coming in short, sharp hitches. "On your left. passing. Watch out for the yellow ice. Never trust the yellow ice."

They reached the halfway point. A small ledge where an old tire was half-buried. They sat on the tire, legs dangling over the slope.

"Status report," Toby said, panting. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. A streak of snot glimmered there, freezing instantly.

"Cold," Mina said. "Hungry. Sadness level... steady at eighty percent."

"Only eighty?" Toby asked. He touched his head, feeling the jagged edge of his hair under his hat. "I'm at ninety. Maybe ninety-five. I look like a convict, Mina. A convict radish."

"It'll grow back," Mina said, but she didn't sound convinced. She looked at her boots. "My mom yelled at me about the pants. She said, 'Mina, how do you attract dirt like a magnet?' She said spaghetti doesn't just jump on people."

"But it does," Toby said solemnly. "It has physics. Gravity. Momentum. The spaghetti wanted to be on you."

"Exactly," Mina said. She picked at a loose thread on her mitten. "I just stood there. I didn't say anything. I just felt... small. You know? Like a crumb."

Toby nodded. He knew the feeling. The feeling of being a crumb in a world of loaves. "I felt like a crumb when the barber held up the mirror. He was smiling. He thought he did a good job. I had to say 'Thanks.' I had to pay him to ruin my life."

They sat in silence again. The wind howled around the corner of the fence. A plastic bag drifted past them, dancing like a ghost.

"We are the worst," Mina said. "We are the losers of the ice age."

"The kings of the losers," Toby corrected. He reached into his pocket. "Ration time?"

He pulled out the granola bar. It was smashed flat. The wrapper was wrinkled and warm from his leg. He peeled it open. The bar had crumbled into a pile of oat dust and raisins.

"A feast," Mina said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "For the kings."

Toby poured a handful of crumbs into his gloved hand. He offered it to Mina. "Partake."

Mina leaned forward. She stuck out her tongue to lick the crumbs off his glove. It was an awkward maneuver. The wind blew at the exact wrong second. A gust of oat dust flew up, straight into her face. Into her eyes. Up her nose.

Mina gagged. She coughed, flailing her arms. "I'm blinded! The raisins! They're attacking!"

She sneezed, a massive, explosive sneeze that echoed off the embankment. Her head snapped forward. Her hat slid down over her eyes.

Toby watched her. She looked like a mushroom that had just exploded. A piece of oat was stuck to her eyelash.

He didn't want to laugh. Laughing was for happy people, for people with good haircuts and clean pants. But a sound bubbled up in his throat. It was a weird noise, like a seal barking.

Mina pushed her hat up. Her eyes were watering. She looked furious. Then she saw the oat on her eyelash. She crossed her eyes to look at it.

"Is it... is it still there?" she asked.

"Yeah," Toby choked out. The seal bark turned into a snort. "It's... it's looking at me."

Mina tried to brush it away but missed and hit herself in the nose with her stiff mitten. "Ow! betrayal!"

Toby started to shake. His shoulders bobbed up and down. The giggle leaked out, high-pitched and embarrassing.

"Stop it," Mina commanded, but her mouth was twitching. "This is serious. I almost died by oatmeal."

"You... you looked like..." Toby couldn't breathe. He pointed at her. "Like a sneezing mushroom."

Mina let out a sharp ha! It surprised her. She clamped a hand over her mouth. "I am not a mushroom. I am a warrior."

"A mushroom warrior!" Toby shouted. He fell backward onto the tire, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. The cold air rushed into his lungs, stinging and sharp, but it felt good. It felt light.

Mina looked at him, rolling around on the dirty tire. She looked at the oat dust on his jacket. Then she started to laugh too. It was a rusty sound at first, creaky from disuse, but then it opened up. She laughed until she hiccuped.

They laughed until they were gasping, lying side by side on the frozen slope. The sadness didn't vanish—Toby still had a bad haircut, and Mina still had spaghetti pants—but it felt lighter. Less like a boulder and more like a pebble.

"Okay," Mina wheezed, wiping her eyes. "Okay. Regroup. The mission."

"The gummies," Toby agreed, sitting up. He felt dizzy. "We have to reach the summit."

They got back to climbing. It was harder now because they kept slipping and giggling, but they moved faster. The shared joke was a fuel.

Toby reached the top first. He grabbed the metal railing of the parking lot fence and hauled himself up. He rolled onto the blacktop, smelling the scent of gasoline and old dumpster juice. It smelled like victory.

He reached down. "Give me your hand, Mushroom."

"Don't call me that," Mina said, but she grabbed his hand. He pulled. She scrambled up, her boots scuffing the concrete.

They stood in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven. The neon sign buzzed overhead, a beacon of civilization. Inside, they could see the rows of colorful candy, the spinning slushy machine, the bored clerk looking at his phone.

"We made it," Toby said. He straightened his jacket. He tried to look cool, but his hat was crooked.

"We conquered the waste," Mina said. She brushed the dirt off her knees. It just smeared the spaghetti stain more, but she didn't check. "Do you have money?"

Toby patted his pockets. The protractor. The wrapper. He froze.

"Toby," Mina said, her voice dangerous. "Do you have the money?"

Toby searched the other pocket. Empty. The back pocket. Empty. The secret inside pocket.

His fingers brushed a crumpled five-dollar bill. He pulled it out. It was warm and soft.

"Secure," he said, holding it up like a holy relic.

"Good," Mina said. She marched toward the automatic doors. "I'm getting the blue ones. They turn your tongue black."

"I'm getting chips," Toby said, following her. "The spicy ones. The ones that hurt."

The doors slid open with a welcoming *whoosh*. The heat from the store hit them, a wall of warmth that smelled like hot dogs and floor cleaner. It was the best smell in the world.

As they walked down the aisle, their boots squeaking on the linoleum, Toby looked at his reflection in the glass of the drink cooler. The haircut was bad. It was really bad. His ears stuck out like handles.

But then he saw Mina behind him in the reflection. She was holding a bag of gummy worms, and she had a smear of dirt on her forehead, and she was making a face at a bag of pretzels.

She caught his eye in the glass. She stuck out her tongue. It was already blue.

Toby smiled. He couldn't help it. He looked like a radish, but he was a radish with a friend. And chips.

"Hey," he said, turning around. "Do you think they have hats in here?"

"Probably not," Mina said, tearing open the gummies with her teeth. "But we can make one. Out of a chip bag. It would be... a look."

"A bold look," Toby said.

"A tragic look," Mina corrected, handing him a worm. "Here. Eat. It's sour."

Toby ate. It was sour. It made his jaw ache. It was perfect.