The cold had teeth this year. It bit through wool and leather and bone, leaving fingers stiff and cheeks raw. The kind of cold that made the cobblestones crack and the windows frost from the inside out. The kind that killed.

James Buchanan Barnes had been at the docks since six that morning. Double shift. His back ached something fierce, his hands chapped and split from the ropes and the salt and the wind off the harbor. He pulled his coat tighter as he walked, breath fogging in front of him, each exhale a small cloud that vanished into the dark.

The neighborhood was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant folks were inside, sick or hiding from the cold or both. He passed the O'Malleys' place—shades drawn. The Fitzgeralds'—no light in the window. Even the corner bar, usually spilling noise and laughter into the street, was dark.

He hadn't seen Steve in weeks. Not properly. Just glimpses—a pale face behind a window, a wave through glass. Stevie's ma had put her foot down, and Bucky couldn't blame her. One cough in this weather and Steve would be laid up for a month. Maybe worse.

But he'd promised.

Walk Addi home. Make sure she gets there safe.

He'd have promised anything, if it meant Steve slept easier.

The corner shop came into view. Hannigan's. Light spilling warm and yellow onto the frozen sidewalk. He pushed the door open, the bell chiming overhead, and the smell hit him—coal smoke and soap and the faint sweetness of the penny candy jar by the register.