text: The neighborhood was asleep but he and his son were awake. It’s 4:51 in the morning and Christmas lights illuminate the street revealing small bungalows and houses with unshoveled snow on their driveways. He parks the car near the last house on the right and leaves it running. This is their neighborhood but they drive in the winter to keep warm. Before they get out they savor one last moment of warmth as they stuff their pouches and the crevices under their arm pits with newspapers. The boy did not want to get up today. He faked that he was asleep like he did on Sunday mornings when his Dad tried to wake him up to go to Mass. Dad wasn’t having it, not today, he needed the extra hands because he had to get to work earlier than usual. He’s been working retail during the holidays for the last six years and the paper route the last two. The boy would help on holidays and some Sundays because of the ad bundles. But he doesn’t want to help today, and his dad doesn’t blame him. “Take the houses on the right.” He said as he walked to the houses on the left. The boy’s shoes crunched with each footstep, the snow from yesterday had frozen over. He was trying to be careful because he slipped and got a bruise on his left butt cheek the previous Sunday. He wasn’t trying to get a matching one on his right. The papers tossed and turned in his pouch like laundry in the dryer as he approached the first house. He reaches under his arm pit and tosses a paper onto the front door mat of 2301 Parkview Lane. Nails it. 2305 Parkview Lane is a bungalow that has an elevated front porch with a roof covering some patio furniture, a swing, and a couple of sleds. He breathes into his hand to give him some grip, grabs the next bundle, and underhands the throw. It lands on the second to the top step. Doesn’t nail it. “Make sure you get it on the porch.” His dad said in his head. He marches up the stairs and squats down to pick up the paper. He tosses it up the remaining stairs and it lightly hits the screen door. He sucks in the cold air through his teeth, praying no one heard that, especially his dad. The coast is clear, thank God. He heads back down the stairs, one at a time. Skip the next house, and then leave the paper on the mailbox for 2313, he thought to himself. Across the street, he was realizing that this is the only quality time he’s had with his son in months. Dinner last night didn’t go so well. He was late because his boss was hovering over his shoulder most of his shift and he couldn’t afford to get another write-up. By the time he got to dinner, the boy had eaten already but his wife waited for him. “He couldn’t wait.” She said as the boy drowned his final two fries in ketchup. He kissed her on the cheek and then they unwrapped their burgers to eat. After his final bite he noticed the boy was looking down at his feet. “What’s wrong, son?” The boy shook his head. “Buddy?” “Nothing.” “Something happen at school.” “No.” He looked at his wife, she shook her head in a way that said, “Don’t bother.” “Did you have fun at your class Christmas party today?” “You were supposed to come.” The boy said as he made eye contact with him for the first time. He forgot. He had been doing that a lot lately, but this time it stung. “You just work all the time. You never have time for me anymore.” The boy’s eyes sunk back to the floor. He didn’t say anything because he knew the kid was right. He didn’t even say he was sorry. After his wife calmed the boy down he went back to work and they went home. He stood in the parking lot before getting into his car, letting the cold air fill up his lungs. He thought of his dad and wished he could give him a call. He finished delivering his batch to all of the houses on the left while the boy was barely halfway done with the houses on the right. He checks his watch, 5:02. 31 houses left, clock in time is in 43 minutes. He walks over to meet the boy halfway. “Come on, bud, let’s pick it up. I’ve got to get to work soon.” He says as he takes the papers from the boy. When he finishes the rest of the street he tells the boy to stay put and he’ll pull the car up. As he waits, the boy puts his fingers up to his mouth and exhales onto them, trying to regain feeling. After his dad pulls up he gets in and they head to the next street. The boy has his hands pressed up against the vents. The heat slowly deteriorates until it becomes just a blow of air. “Heat’s going out again.” The boy says as he crams his hands into his coat pockets. “It’ll be okay, just keep folding, the newspaper will help keep your hands warm.” The boy grabs a stack of unfolded papers from the backseat and a handful of rubber bands from the cupholder. Fold the right side, fold the left side, rubber band around once, twice, snap, and toss onto the dash. Repeat. As he folds the fifth paper he stretches the rubber band too far and it snaps and whips into his thumb. The boy hates it when this happens, his dad does too. He grabs another rubber band and delicately finagles the rubber band around the paper and tosses it onto the dash. He grabs another stack and keeps folding as they arrive to the next street. Westview Drive is a darker road. A streetlight is burnt out and another one is covered by a mass of tree branches. Most of the houses don’t have Christmas lights either. The boy reaches inside of the glove box and pulls out two flashlights, a mag light for dad and a smaller LED light for himself. “Double time.” His dad says as he exits the car. They split up again. The boy has the flashlight in between his teeth. Everyone on his side of the street got the paper. He’s walking faster and the wind is beginning to pick up which makes everything colder. The first house belonged to an elderly woman who was always awake by the time they delivered the paper. She stood in the doorway wearing a white robe and bed head. She opens the door as the boy offers the paper to her. “Helping dad today?” She said. The boy nodded. “Well stay warm, ya here?” “Yes ma’am. Have a good day.” He said with the flashlight still in his mouth. Looking across the street he saw dad was almost done with his side. He picks up his pace. He’s not worried so much about getting the papers on the porch now, but he still tries his best. When dad finishes he has four houses remaining. “Hurry up, son!” His dad yells as he jogs over to the car. “I shouldn’t rush him.” He thinks as he puts his mag light back in the glove box. Still no heat. If he’s cold the boy will be much colder. Only six houses left after this, and their all by their house. “I’ll make it up to him.” He thought as he drove to pick up the boy. At least he hoped he could. The stairs leading up to the last house are covered with snow and the guard rails on the sides are glistened with ice formations that hang off of the edges. The boy grabs hold of the railings and slowly walks up the steps. When he gets halfway up he reaches into his pouch and grabs the last paper and tosses it onto the doormat. As he turns around to go back down he clutches the railing for dear life. Down the steps, one at a time, he knows he’s being slow and that dad’s in a hurry, but... too late. The boy misses the last step and his foot slides out from underneath him. He tries to grab for the railing but his hand slips off and he slams down on the edge of the last step, his elbow makes the first impact. The flashlight falls out of his mouth and slides down the sidewalk still shining. His hand turns red and numb while his elbow throbs. The melting snow begins to seep through his pants and his long john underwear. He can’t stand up and it’s taking everything not to cry. Dad pulls up to the side of the street. He sees his boy sitting down. He honks the horn. “What’s he doing?” He thought. 5:24. The boy isn’t getting up. He reaches across the passenger seat and begins cranking down the window. “Let’s go!” He yelled, trying not to wake the neighbors. The boy shakes his head. He gets out of the car and jogs towards him. “Son let’s go, I got 20 minutes until I have to be at-.” He stops. He sees a tear rolling down his boy’s cheek. He kneels down. “What happened?” He asks. “Nothing.” “Buddy, talk to me.” The boy shakes his head. “Did you slip and fall?” He asks. The boy keeps looking down at the ground. “I’m sorry. I am. But can you stand up for me? We really gotta keep moving.” He pleads. The boy pushes himself up off the cold cement. The back of his pants are soaked through and he clutches his arm as he walks to the car. He stands there watching his son and he begins to follow him, picking up the flashlight and turning it off along the way. The boy looks out the window as they drive back to their house. The dad keeps looking over to him, not knowing what to say. He pulls into his driveway at 5:30. When the car comes to a full stop the boy unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door. “Wait.” He says. “You feel that?” He says as he puts his hand toward the vent. The boy puts his hand on the vent as well, he smiles. “Heat’s coming back.” The boy nods to him as he puts both of his hands on the vents, still smiling. “Wait here a minute okay?” His dad says as he grabs the remaining six papers off the dash. He hops out of the car and leaves it running. Quality time with his dad was scarce when he was a kid. Catholic family and he was the youngest of seven. His dad worked for the newspaper, writing columns and reporting on local news. One day his dad took him to the office, showed him the printing press and the type writer he worked on. His dad told him he could be anything he wanted to be, so long as he did it well. Not great, but well. He didn’t think he’d be in this spot, delivering papers at 5:33 in the morning before he went to his next job. He could firmly say he did both jobs well, though. Well, except for one. And as he delivers his last paper he realizes this. He looks at his car and the boy is still sitting inside. He gets in the car and blows into hands while rubbing them together. The boys hands are still glued to the vents, the feeling finally coming back. “How’s your arm?” He asks. “A little better, I can move it now.” “Buddy, I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.” He reaches for the boys hand. The boy reaches back and takes it. “For everything.” The boy looks at him and nods. He knows what he means. “I just miss you.” He tells him. “I miss you, too. And I will be better, okay? You don’t have to understand everything right now, that’s not your job. I may have other responsibilities, but you’re my greatest responsibility.” Both of their hands are dry and are smudged with ink but they keep holding one another for a moment. The boy hops out of the car and he watches him trudge up to the house. He puts the car in reverse and backs into the street. He makes sure his son gets inside before putting it in drive. As the boy opens the front door he turns back to his dad, waves, and then goes inside their house. He drives down their street passing the small houses and bungalows decorated with Christmas lights and mechanical reindeer. He thought of his dad, who taught him his first paper route, and remembered his laugh and cheer. And he wipes the tear across his cheek, smearing the skin under his eye with newspaper ink.