Cold has a sound in Minnesota. Not silence…but a pressure you feel in your teeth. The yard is stiff with frost, the grass pressed flat and drained of color. My breath shows itself immediately, a small cloud I can’t seem to control. I’ve lived in Indonesia long enough now that cold feels less like weather and more like a living thing. The snow under your boots squeaks faintly when you shift your weight. Even the fence posts creak softly as the wood tightens in the cold. The air smells faintly metallic, as if the whole landscape has been filed down to bare iron.

My friend stands near the back fence in a parka that reaches her knees, boots sunk into the frozen ground. She calls the dog’s name brightly, too brightly, and flings the frisbee with a practiced snap of her wrist. The fence is new, waist-high, clean-lined, the kind of fence that signals intention. Nothing in this yard wanders out by accident.

The frisbee cuts through the air, red against the gray, and lands with a hard plastic thud. The dog charges after it, skidding slightly before grabbing it and racing back, tail whipping, eyes locked on her hand. He drops it neatly at her feet and waits.

“See?” she says, clapping once. “Perfect return.”

She throws it again before I can respond.

The loop repeats. Throw, chase, retrieve. The dog seems tireless, almost reverent about it. I watch the pattern settle in, how easily meaning forms around repetition.

She talks while she throws. About the house. About the yard. About how much work it was to get the fence installed before the ground froze. About the dog’s training schedule, his diet, his anxiety around thunderstorms. Every detail arrives polished, complete.

“It’s nice,” she says. “Knowing where everything is. Knowing what comes next.”

I nod. My gloves are too thin. I tuck my hands under my arms.

She glances at me, casual. “I don’t think I’d like moving around so much,” she says. “Living out of suitcases.”

“I don’t,” I say. “Not really.”

“Well,” she says, smiling, “I like being able to plan more than a month ahead.”

The frisbee sails again.

I flew in yesterday from Jakarta. The flight was long enough to forget where I was going. The air there is thick and damp and smells faintly of diesel and clove cigarettes. Dogs sleep wherever they land. Some of them follow you for blocks, hopeful. Some disappear into traffic and reappear days later as if nothing has happened. No fences. No gates. Just negotiation. They nose up against my legs, seeing me as a sister, happy to accompany me for a street or two. Sometimes they sleep beneath food carts where the vendors rinse dishes into the gutter. Sometimes they lie directly in the path of scooters and traffic bends around them like water around a stone.

My friend’s dog returns again, obedient as gravity.

“He could do this all afternoon,” she says proudly. “He never gets bored.”

She pauses, then adds, “I don’t either.”

She goes inside briefly to grab coffee, leaving the door ajar. The dog circles me once, then drops the frisbee at my feet. I don’t pick it up. He nudges it closer.

“You can throw it,” she calls from inside. “He’ll listen to you.”

I pick it up and toss it weakly. The throw is bad. The dog retrieves it anyway, triumphant.

“See?” she says, reappearing with two mugs. “He adapts.”

She hands me coffee. It’s already cooling. She takes a long sip of hers.

“So,” she says lightly. “How’s work?”

“Busy,” I say.

She nods, satisfied. “I figured. You always were good at keeping yourself occupied.”

I almost laugh. She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“I like knowing my neighbors,” she continues. “I like routines. I like that people recognize me at the hardware store.”

The dog sits, panting, watching her.

“And publishing’s such a grind anyway,” she adds. “You’re lucky if anyone reads anything. At least with the play, I know it’s useful. Kids need stuff like that.”

I glance toward the house. Through the window I can see the framed program hanging in the hallway. I’ve seen it before. She points at it every time I visit. The paper has yellowed slightly around the edges.

She sniffs. “I think people eventually outgrow drifting.”

The dog drops the frisbee again. He looks between us, uncertain who to please.

She laughs. “He hates it when people don’t play along.”

She checks her phone, frowns slightly, then tucks it back into her pocket.

“Gonna check the laundry,” she says. “Don’t let him out.”

The door closes behind her with a soft click.

The yard settles. No wind. No voices. Somewhere a crow calls once and lifts away. The dog’s breathing comes in steady bursts, little clouds rising and dissolving in front of his nose. The quiet feels thicker now that the conversation has gone with her.

The dog sits, then stands, then trots toward the gate, sniffing at the base where the ground dips slightly. The latch is simple. Metal loop. Clean hinge. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s all I can see. Frost has gathered along the seam where the metal meets the post, a thin white line that would break with almost no effort.

Beyond the gate, the street runs pale and quiet. A car passes. Somewhere nearby, a shovel scrapes against concrete.

The dog returns to me, frisbee clenched between his teeth, tail beating against the cold air. He drops it at my feet and waits. His breath clouds the space between us.

I don’t move.

I imagine lifting the latch. The sound it would make. The pause afterward. The dog’s confusion, his sudden attention to the world beyond the fence. I imagine him bolting forward or hesitating, unsure which rule has been broken.

The dog whines softly.

My hand hovers near the latch.

I lift it.

The metal shifts lightly in the cold.

The dog’s ears rise.

I think of streets without borders. Dogs that learn by accident. I think of all the lives that look stable because nothing has ever tested their gates.

I take a breath.

It’s cold here.

---

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and currently lives in Tokyo. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (The Written Path: A Journey Through Sobriety and Scripture) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.