now is no disgrace. Most
applicants do at this point
anyway.”
Humiliated, I sat
there feeling like a failure,
whether he used the word or
not. But I knew I couldn’t
feel worse. “I’m not an
applicant anymore. I didn’t
even pass the fog test.”
Now that my third test
was over, I could hear the
snow room nearby. What
was the howling—another
wind machine? Unless those
are people, crying to get out.
But would the examiner
waste energy by keeping the
fans running in an empty
room?
I scrambled to my feet, stuck my foot
back in the boot, and sloshed toward the
door. “You said I could finish. Let me go in.”
“Kris, you’ll fail. Again.”
I thought they didn’t say fail here. “Not
until I try. Again.”
WEATHER TEST # 4 : SNOW
Rolling his eyes, the examiner insisted I
dry myself with a “towel” (which felt wonder-
ful) and put on new protective gear before
the final test. This time, the coat and boots
were thicker versions of the ones I’d just given
back, and the hat was warmer than the wind
test one. There were “mittens,” too. With
all my fingers except my thumb squeezed
together, I wasn’t sure how to use the “shovel”
the examiner handed me. “Clear the floor of
snow inside the marked square. You have ten
minutes.” I stepped through the door.
And I thought the wind was cold.
That cat I’d imagined playing with me
before was angry now—hissing and spitting
flakes in my chattering teeth. The cold felt
like the cat was snapping at me. And the fans
weren’t purring now; they were snarling.
Every step was a struggle against losing
the boots in the heavy, wet, and so-cold-it-felt-
like-there-should-be-another-word-for-it snow.
Big shovelfuls were a mistake, I soon found
out. Much better to work faster with smaller
loads. Either way, muscles I’d never used, or
even knew existed, ached.9