"Nothing happened."
"You have your work face. On Christmas Eve, you should have your home face."
"I'll find it," Harper said. "I think it's in the car."
They went up the outside staircase together, Roman ahead of her in his too-small boots and his Buffalo Bills stocking cap, the one with the red pompom that had come free from the box of Hostess Twinkies he'd saved wrappers for all fall. The Bills were in the playoffs, which was a thing that had not happened in a long time, and Roman believed with the terrible faith of a nine-year-old that Joe Ferguson was going to beat the Jets on Sunday and then the Bengals and then everybody, and that this was somehow connected to whether he got the Atari for Christmas. He was not getting the Atari. The Atari was a hundred and sixty-nine dollars at Twin Fair. He was getting a Stretch Armstrong from the clearance bin, two Matchbox cars, a book about the Titanic, and new boots, which he did not know he needed and would not thank her for.
"We have to go to Bells," Harper said at the top of the stairs. "We're out of milk and I promised you cocoa."
"Can I pick the marshmallows?"
"You can pick the marshmallows."
"Can I pick the Little Debbies?"
"Don't push your luck."
So they went back down and got into the station wagon, and Roman sat in the front seat with his boots up on the dash and his face pressed to the cold window, and they drove down Amherst toward Niagara Street, toward the river, into the white.
That was how they found him.