Tuesdays with Ted

Ted rolled lazily across the bear skin rug, not quite awake but no longer asleep. Despite the roaring wind outside, he was warm -- hot, even. A sheen of sweat covered his bare chest. The stove burned hot and bright. Ted was alone in the tent.

He picked up one of the heavy blankets from the wooden basket and wrapped it haphazardly around his shoulders. Stepping out of the tent flap, the wind bit through it, pouring ice cold air against his skin.

But he didn't notice. Arghun sat on the log where they had cooked last night, her back to the tent. Despite the cold, she wore only her thin wool undershirt. Ted couldn't see her face, but he knew something was wrong.

"Günaydin, my love," he said, putting his left hand on her shoulder while pulling his blanket tighter with the right. "Aren't you cold?"

Arghun ignored his question. "Oh, Batachikhan," she barely whispered in an Uyghur dialect. "It's coming now. Can't you feel it?"

Ted didn't answer. He only pressed closer against Arghun's back, both looking out over the steppes. For the first time since he was awake, Ted noticed the cold, and shivered.