Millie, aged six, was on her way to school; she sat strapped into her booster seat in the back of her father’s car. Improbably, beyond the car windows, it was snowing – a sleety, mushy kind of snow; the windscreen wipers laboured to push the wet masses aside. Winters in the city were so mild these days, and to the adults snowy winter weather seemed a nostalgic memory.To Millie, however, the snow wasn’t at all improbable, but welcome as part of the necessary preparations for , like cutting out paper snowflakes with scissors to stick on the classroom windows, or decorating the tree at home with her mother.The sound of the windscreen wipers was lulling and nearly sent her back inside her private sleep-world: which was dangerous because she must be vigilant, ready for school. She had to concentrate, apart from anything else, on not feeling sick. There was a sour smell of dusty fabric inside the car, which Millie dreaded; her mother had told her to imagine a long straight road with green trees overhanging it on either side.
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