“What the heck are these?” Quorra asks, her breath solidifying into color in the air. She pokes one of the warped protrusions and watches it snap away and fall into the snow below. “Hm. Weak. Like bones.”
“I’m gonna ignore that ‘bones’ thing for now,” Sam says, “but that’s an icicle.”
“An icicle?” She takes off a glove, puts one knee in the snow, and picks the “icicle” up. It’s cold, wet, transparent, and has the potential to be sharp. “What is it, though?”
“It’s—oh, man.” She glances over to see Sam rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. “Uh, well, I’m not a chem kinda guy, but—you know the ice tray, right? How we put water in it and freeze it and cubes come out?”
She tosses the icicle into some of the other icicles hanging off the awning and stands up as they shatter into pieces. “Oh yeah, the crunchy water!”
“Yeah, the crunchy water. It’s basically the same concept, but the water freezes as it drips and makes this sort of structure.”
“Ooh! Can I—”
“No, you can’t eat an icicle.”
“Aw.” She kicks at the snow, sending a flurry of flakes everywhere and looking very much like a petulant child.
She hears Sam chuckle, and he puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. His warmth is soothing through all their layers, and she leans into it.
“How about this,” Sam says. “Let’s go home, get out the ice trays, and make a whole bunch of ice cubes, all right?”
Quorra beams at him. “Can we make icicles? Ones that are suitable for consumption?”
“I—yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.”
She exclaims a, “Yesss!” and does an excited little fist pump. Something Sam had told her was “embarrassing,” but he snorts.
She really hopes making icicles won’t be that difficult. She craves that crunch.