She was holding a stranger’s hand. That’s the first thing I saw. Not her face, her hand. A small hand with a silver ring on the third finger. The ring I’d put there in 1984 wrapped around the hand of a skinny kid in a gray hoodie who was shaking so hard his coffee cup rattled on the saucer.
Then she turned her head a little toward the window in the snow, and I saw her face, and my whole body forgot how to breathe.
My name is Dale Brennan. I’m 64 years old. For 36 years, I climbed power poles for the electric company in Mansfield, Ohio. I’ve been up a pole in an ice storm at 3 in the morning with 8,000 volts a foot from my face. And I’ve never once been as scared as I was in that diner, looking at the back of my wife’s neck.
I hadn’t seen her in 15 years. I didn’t know if she was alive. And she was sitting two tables away from me in a town I’d never heard of in the middle of a blizzard, holding hands with somebody else’s son.
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Now, let me take you back to that afternoon. My sister Peg died in February. She was the last person on Earth who still said June’s name out loud to me. The week before she died in a hospice bed in Scranton, she grabbed my hand with what strength she had left and said, “Promise me you won’t stop looking.”
I told her I’d never stopped.
She said, “Then look somewhere you haven’t.”
I thought it was the morphine talking. I drove over to Scranton for the funeral, and on the way home, heading west on Interstate 80 back toward Ohio, somewhere past Clearfield, the sky turned the color of wet cement. By 4:00, it was snowing so hard I couldn’t see the hood of my own truck. By 5, the state police had shut the interstate. They waved everybody off at an exit with no name I recognized, just a number and an arrow, and a sign that said Cold Water Gap, 2 miles.
Cold Water Gap was one street, a church, a feed store, a gas station with the lights already off, and at the end of the street, glowing yellow in the snow like a lantern, a diner called Maze.
I didn’t know it yet, but Peg had been right. I was about to look somewhere I hadn’t.
The story is still unfolding. Comment “LOVE” and I’ll share the rest.
Part 2:
There were maybe 20 cars in the lot already. Truckers, families, a church van, everybody. The storm had thrown them off the road. I got the last booth by the kitchen. The waitress, a big woman with gray braids who turned out to be May herself, brought me coffee without asking and said the power was going to go any minute, so I’d better order something that didn’t need the grill.
I ordered pie. And then I looked up, and I saw the ring.
I want to tell you about June before I tell you anything else, or none of this will make sense. I met her up a pole. That’s the truth. It was July of 1,982, after a thunderstorm took out half of Mansfield and I’d been working 20 hours straight on her street. Around midnight, a red-headed girl came out of a little yellow house in her nightgown and a raincoat and stood at the bottom of my pole, holding a coffee can full of iced tea, and hollered up, “You’ve been up there all day. Come down and drink something before you fall on my mother’s roses.”
I came down. I drank the tea. I married her two years later.
Every storm of our marriage, every time I got called out, she’d stand on the porch and say the same thing: “Be careful up there.” And she’d have something cold or something hot waiting when I got home, depending on the season.
June Brennan was a high school cafeteria cook. She had red hair that went silver the year she turned 50, and she laughed with her whole body. She could not sing to save her life, but sang anyway, every morning, making coffee.
We had one child, a boy, Thomas, after my father. But nobody ever called him anything but Tommy. Tommy was the kind of kid who’d give you his coat and then get sick walking home. He played catcher in high school. He wanted to be a game warden.
When he was 10, he found a hawk with a broken wing in our back field, and he kept it in a dog crate in the garage for 6 weeks, feeding it raw hamburger with a pair of June’s kitchen tongs until it could fly. The day he let it go, he stood in that field and cried and laughed at the same time. June and I stood on the porch and held hands and didn’t say anything.
That was Tommy. He was 19 years old when he died.
June had hurt her back that spring lifting a 40 lb stockpot at school. They did surgery and sent her home with a bottle of pain pills, the strong kind, the kind everybody was getting in those days. She took a few and hated how they made her feel, and she put the bottle in the medicine cabinet and forgot about it.
Tommy didn’t forget about it. We didn’t know. Neither one of us knew. Not until a Sunday morning in October 15 years ago, when June went to wake him for church.
I’ll tell you what I did. I’m not proud of it. I’ve had a long time to be not proud of it.
3 days after the funeral, at 2:00 in the morning, June found me sitting at the kitchen table with the empty pill bottle in front of me. Her name was on the label. I’d been looking at it for hours. She came and stood in the doorway in her bathrobe and said, “Dale, come to bed.”
And I didn’t look up. I said six words. I said, “Those were your pills, June. Yours.”
That’s all. Six words.
I didn’t shout them. I don’t think I even meant them. Not the way they came out. I was a man who’d just buried his only son, and I wanted something in the world to be somebody’s fault, and she was the only one standing there.
She didn’t answer. She went back upstairs.
In the morning, she made coffee the way she always did. She didn’t sing. She put the coffee in my thermos and kissed the top of my head and said, “Be careful up there.”
And when I came home that night, she was gone. Her car was gone. Her purse, her winter coat, nothing else, no note, just a grocery list on the refrigerator under the magnet shaped like Ohio, in her handwriting, from the day before. Coffee, bread, call the cemetery about the stone.
They found her car 11 days later in the long-term lot at the Greyhound station in Columbus. The police were kind about it. They said she was a grown woman and it wasn’t a crime to leave. They said people do it more than you’d think. They said she’d probably call when she was ready.
She never called since that October.
I haven’t moved one thing in that house. Her side of the closet. Her reading glasses on the nightstand. That grocery list is still on the refrigerator, gone yellow and soft at the edges. I never filed for divorce. I never took off my ring.
Every year on Tommy’s birthday, I went out to the cemetery and stood there between his stone and the empty space beside it. And I told him I was sorry, and I told him I was looking. And both of those things were true.
And then a snowstorm shut down Interstate 80, and two tables away from me in a diner in Cold Water Gap, Pennsylvania, sat my wife.
She hadn’t seen me. She was sitting with her back half turned, leaning across the table toward that boy in the hoodie, and she was talking to him low and steady, the way you’d talk to a horse that was about to bolt. He was maybe 20, thin, with dark circles under his eyes and a bad cut healing on his knuckles. His knee was bouncing under the table so hard I could feel it through the floor.
And then the power went out. The whole diner went black just like that, with a groan from 20 people and the hum of the coolers dying in the kitchen. For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and snow hitting the big front window.
Then lighters, phones. May came out of the kitchen with a flashlight and two candles and coffee mugs and announced that the generator out back had been dead since Christmas and nobody was going anywhere tonight, so everybody might as well get comfortable.
Nobody was going anywhere tonight.
I sat in that dark booth and understood what that meant. In the candlelight, I could still see her. And I could hear her now, a little under the noise of all those strangers settling in.
“Kyle, look at me. Breathe with me. In. Hold it. Out. That’s it.”
The boy said something I couldn’t catch.
“I know,” she said. “I know it feels like the end of the world. It isn’t. It’s just tonight. We only have to get through tonight.”
That was June’s voice. It was older and rougher, and it didn’t laugh the way it used to, but it was June’s voice. And I’d never heard her talk like that to anybody in her life.
Then the boy said loud enough for me to hear, “I can’t do another night, Miss June. I got some in my bag. Just let me go out to the car.”
And she said, very calmly, “You don’t have any in the car, honey. I took them out of your bag when we stopped for gas. They’re in the snow somewhere outside of Dubois.”
He put his face in his hands, and she held on to his wrist and didn’t let go.
I sat there in the dark, and something started to come together in my head, and I didn’t want it to because it hurt worse than anything since Tommy.
I’m a lineman. I fix things. And the one thing I know how to fix better than anything is power. So I did the only thing I could think of to do with my hands.
I got up and found May in the kitchen and asked her where the generator was. It was in a lean-tube behind the building, buried under 2 ft of snow, a 12 kowatt unit older than May’s oldest grandchild. The fuel line had cracked in the cold, and the carburetor was gummed up.
I spent 40 minutes out there in the dark with a flashlight in my teeth and my hands going numb, taking it apart and putting it back together with a roll of electrical tape and a hose clamp off May’s dishwasher.
Some of that time I was fixing a generator. Most of it I was thinking about a little yellow house in 1982 and a girl in a raincoat at the bottom of my pole and how the first thing she ever said to me was to come down before I fell.
And I was trying to figure out what I was going to say. I never did figure it out.
When the lights came back on, the whole diner cheered. 20 people clapping in a little roadside place in the middle of a blizzard. May hollered from behind the counter, “The man from Ohio did it.”
And I walked back in from the kitchen, stamping the snow off my boots, with grease on my hands and ice in my beard. Every head in that room turned to look at me, including hers.
I saw it happen. I saw her see me. She was in the middle of saying something to the boy. She stopped. Her face went white. And then it went somewhere I’d never seen it go, not even at Tommy’s funeral.
Her hand let go of Kyle’s wrist. Her lips moved, and no sound came out. But I knew the word.
It was my name.
Neither of us moved. I don’t know how long we stood there. Long enough that the boy turned around in his seat to see what she was looking at. Long enough that May stopped wiping the counter.
Then June did something I wasn’t ready for. She looked down at the table, and she put her hand back on that boy’s wrist and held on. She looked up at me one more time, and her eyes said, “Not now.”
And she turned back to him.
I understood. That boy was drowning, and she was the only rope he had. Whatever we were, whatever we’d been, she wasn’t going to let go of him to grab on to me.
And standing there in the middle of that diner with grease on my hands, I realized I had never been prouder of anybody in my life.
I sat down in my booth by the kitchen. May brought me a fresh cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie I didn’t ask for, and she sat down across from me with a groan and lowered her voice.
“You know June,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I used to.”
May looked at me a long time. “She’s been in this town 12 years,” she said. “Rents the apartment over the hardware store. Comes in every morning at 6:00. Coffee, black, wheat toast. Never talks about where she came from. Never once.”
She nodded at the boy. “She runs the recovery meeting in the church basement Tuesday and Thursday nights. That’s what she does. Pills mostly. Kids. That one’s Kyle Dunlap. His mother called June at noon today. Said he took off to buy in Pittsburgh. June got in her car and drove 40 miles in this weather to the bus station in Dubois and pulled him off the Pittsburgh bus just before it left. They were headed home when they shut the road.”
May put her big hand flat on the table between us. “She’s buried four of them in 12 years,” she said. “And she’s kept I don’t know how many alive. You could fill this diner. Every one of them calls her Miss June.”
She got up. “I don’t know who you are to her, mister, but if you hurt that woman, there are about 200 people in this county who’ll come looking for you.”
I said, “Ma’am, I already hurt her 15 years ago. That’s why she’s here.”
May looked at me a long moment. Then she patted my shoulder once and went back to the counter.
And I sat there with my pie and looked at the back of my wife’s head and understood at last where she had gone.
She hadn’t run away from Tommy. She’d been trying to save him. Over and over again in every one of those kids.
Around 11, the diner went quiet. The truckers were asleep in their booths with their jackets over their heads. The church van family had their kids curled up on the floor on a pile of coats. The wind had died a little, but the snow kept coming, big and soft now, piling up against the window.
June had finally gotten Kyle to eat half a grilled cheese. He was slumped in the corner of the booth with his eyes closed, and his knee had stopped bouncing.
She stood up. She looked at me across the room, and she walked over and sat down across from me in my booth by the kitchen.
She was 62. Her hair was all silver now, cut short. There were lines around her mouth I’d never seen, but her eyes were the same. I could have picked those eyes out of a crowd of a million.
For a long time, neither of us said anything.
Then she said, “You got old, Dale.”
“So did you. I know.”
She almost smiled. “I see it every morning.”
“You look good, June.”
“Don’t.” She shook her head. “Please don’t be kind to me yet. I can’t take it.”
May came by and set down a cup of coffee in front of her. Black, she didn’t ask. Then she went away again.
June put both hands around the cup and didn’t drink it.
“How did you find me?”
“I didn’t. I was driving home from Peg’s funeral. They shut the interstate.”
“Peg died in February?”
“Her heart.”
“Oh, Dale.” She put her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I loved Peg. She looked for you too for years. She called every hospital in three states.”
June closed her eyes.
I’d carried a speech in my head all that time for this moment. I’d practiced it in my truck and on the ladder and at Tommy’s grave. And now that she was sitting across a table from me, every word of it was gone.
All I had left was the six words.
So I started there. “June, that night in the kitchen, what I said to you—”
She didn’t open her eyes.
“I didn’t mean it. I’ve never meant anything less in my life. I was out of my head. I wanted to hurt something, and you were standing in the doorway, and I—”
I had to stop.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You hurt your back, and a doctor gave you pills. You didn’t give them to our son. He took them, and I couldn’t stand that it was nobody’s fault. So, I made it yours. I’ve been sorry every single day since. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know I knew.”
She opened her eyes. They were full. And she said something I wasn’t ready to hear.
“Dale, I didn’t leave because of what you said.”
I stared at her.
“I left because you were right.”
“No, you were.”
“You were right.” Her voice was very quiet and very steady, the way she’d talked to that boy. “They were my pills. I knew he’d been hurt playing ball that summer. I knew he was having a hard time. I saw him looking at that cabinet once, and I thought, ‘He’s just looking for an aspirin.’ I counted those pills, Dale, in August. I counted them because something bothered me, and there were six missing, and I told myself I’d miscounted. I told myself that because I didn’t want it to be true. And 2 months later, I went to wake him up for church.”
She was crying now without making any sound at all.
“I knew, and I didn’t say anything. Not to you, not to him. And when you said those six words, it was like you’d read it right out of my head. I couldn’t live in that house with you knowing. I couldn’t look at you across the breakfast table for the rest of our lives. So, I packed my coat and I drove to Columbus and I got on a bus and I rode it until the money ran out.”
She looked out the window at the snow.
“It ran out in Pittsburgh. I slept in a shelter for 6 weeks. A woman there ran a meeting in the basement for families who’d lost somebody to pills. I went because it was warm. I kept going. After a year, she asked me to help her. After three, she sent me out here because there was nobody in this whole county doing it and the kids were dying.”
She turned back to me. “I’ve buried four of them, Dale. I go to every funeral, and every time I stand there, I think this is the one where I finally pay for Tommy, and it’s never enough.”
I didn’t know what to say. So, I said the only true thing I had.
“June, I counted them too.”
She went very still.
“In September, I was looking for the ant acids. I saw the bottle and picked it up, and it felt light. I remember thinking, ‘That’s funny.’ And I put it back. I never said a word to you because I didn’t want it to be true either.”
I told her the rest then. How I’d driven to Columbus every year on the day she left and walked through that Greyhound station looking at faces. How I’d paid a private investigator $4,000 in 2014, and he’d found nothing because she’d gone back to her maiden name, Hail, and paid cash for everything and lived in a place too small to have a stoplight. How I’d kept her number in my phone through three new phones and called it on her birthday every year just to hear the recording that said it was disconnected.
She listened with her hand pressed against her mouth.
“I called the house once,” she said finally. “6 years ago, Christmas Eve. You picked up and said hello, and I couldn’t say anything. I just listened to you breathe. Then you said, ‘June, is that you?’ And I hung up.”
I remembered that call. I’d sat by the phone until morning.
We sat there across that table and looked at each other. Two old people in a diner in the snow who’d each been carrying the same thing for half our lives and thought they were carrying it alone.
“All that time,” June whispered. “15 years. I thought it was only me.”
“It was never only you,” I said. “It was never anybody. It was a sickness, June. It was a sickness that came into our house in a bottle with a doctor’s name on it. And it took our boy. And it would have taken him if we’d counted those pills every day. Look at that kid over there. Look at what you do. You know that better than anybody alive.”
She put her face in her hands and cried.
“Every Tuesday,” she said through her fingers, “I set out one more folding chair than we need. In the basement, nobody sits in it. The kids think it’s for whoever walks in late. I never told them who it’s really for.”
And I reached across that table and put my hand on her wrist the way she’d held on to Kyle’s. And she let me.
We stayed like that a long time.
And then behind June, a cold draft came across the floor. I looked up. The front door of the diner was swinging shut, and Kyle’s booth was empty.
June was on her feet before I was. “His keys,” she said. “He took my keys.”
Through the window, we could see a shape in a gray hoodie stumbling across the parking lot through snow up to his knees toward her little blue Subaru, buried at the far end of the lot.
She grabbed her coat. I grabbed her arm.
“June, stay here. You’ll fall.”
“He’ll die out there, Dale. He’s going back to Pittsburgh. He’ll drive into a ditch in the first mile, or he’ll make it, and that’s worse.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“Let me go.”
She looked at me, and I saw her understand what I was asking for. Not to be the hero, just to be allowed to do for somebody else’s son the one thing I never got to do for mine.
She let go of my arm.
It was 10 below with the wind. The snow was coming sideways again. I had been out in worse, but not for a long time and not at 64.
By the time I got across that lot, he had the car door open and was down on his knees, digging at the snow around the back tire with his bare hands, crying and swearing he’d never get it out.
He knew it. He kept digging anyway.
I didn’t grab him. I’ve never grabbed a scared man in my life. On a pole or off it. I just got down on my knees in the snow next to him about 3 ft away and started digging, too.
He stopped. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“What are you doing, man?”
“Helping?” I said. “If you’re going, you’re going to need this tire clear.”
He stared at me. Snow was piling up in his hair.
“You’re the guy,” he said. “The generator guy. Miss June’s guy.”
“I’m her husband.”
That stopped him.
“She never said she had a husband.”
“She didn’t know if she still did,” I said. “I kept digging. Neither did I.”
He watched me for a while. Then he sat back in the snow against the car with his arms around his knees, shaking.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, “feeling like this. Like your skin’s on inside out. It’s not about wanting to get high. I don’t even want to anymore. I just want it to stop.”
“I don’t know what it’s like,” I said. “You’re right. I had a boy who did, though.”
He looked up.
“His name was Tommy. He was 19. He caught for his high school team, and he wanted to be a game warden. He’d have liked you. He liked anybody who was having a bad time.”
The wind came across that lot so hard it rocked the car.
“One Sunday in October, he didn’t wake up. And I’ve spent every day since thinking that if I’d seen it coming, if I’d been out here in the snow with him one night like this, maybe I could have said the right thing.”
I stopped digging.
“I don’t know what the right thing is, Kyle. I never got to find out. But I know there’s a woman in that diner who drove 40 m in a blizzard for you this afternoon, and she has buried four boys like you and Tommy, and she will not survive five. So I’m asking you, not for you, for her. Give her the keys.”
He sat there a long time. Then he started to cry. The kind of crying where you can’t get your breath, and he held out June’s car keys in his wet red hand.
I took them.
Then I took off my coat, my good car heart coat, 30 years old, and I put it around him and helped him up. We walked back across that parking lot together, slow, him leaning on me.
And June was standing in the open door of May’s diner with the yellow light behind her, holding it open against the wind. And she didn’t say anything. She just held out her arms and took him in.
When he was inside, wrapped in a blanket by the coffee machine, she turned to me. I was standing on the step in my shirt sleeves, covered in snow, my hands so cold I couldn’t feel them.
She looked at me for a long moment, and then she said it. The thing she used to say on our porch for 27 years.
“You’ve been out there long enough. Come in and drink something before you fall.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
And then I wasn’t laughing anymore, and neither was she.
And for the first time in 15 years, my wife put her arms around me.
The snow stopped a little before 5. At first light, the plows came through on the interstate, and one by one, the cars started to dig out of May’s lot.
Kyle’s mother drove up from the next town in a pickup with chains on the tires, and she cried on June for 5 minutes, and then cried on me, and I didn’t mind. Kyle went with her.
Before he got in the truck, he turned around and said, “Mr. Brennan, tell me your son’s whole name.”
“So I remember it.”
“Thomas Brennan,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll remember.”
May stood at the door as the last cars pulled out, with her arms folded and her braids over her shoulders. When June and I came out together, she looked at the two of us for a long moment and then looked at me.
“Ohio,” she said. “Your generator’s still running.”
“I’ll come back and fix it right,” I said.
“See that you do,” said May. “And bring her back with you.”
I didn’t take June home with me that morning. I want to be honest with you; that isn’t how it went. 15 years doesn’t fix in one night, no matter how much snow there is.
We stood in the parking lot by my truck in the gray light. Both of us too tired to talk.
And she said, “I’ve got a meeting Tuesday. I’ve got Kyle. I’ve got people here, Dale.”
And I said, “I know you do.”
And she said, “I don’t know how to come back.”
And I said, “Then don’t come back. Come forward however slow you want.”
Then I gave her something. I’d had it in my wallet since that October: folded up small, the grocery list from the refrigerator. Coffee, bread, call the cemetery about the stone. I’d taken it down the morning I left for Peg’s funeral for luck.
She unfolded it and read it in her own handwriting, and she put her hand over her mouth.
“You kept it.”
“I kept everything,” I said. “Your side of the closet, your glasses. I never took off my ring.”
She held up her right hand. The silver ring was still on it.
“I moved it to this hand the day I got to Pittsburgh,” she said, “so I’d stop looking at it. It didn’t work.”
She came home on Tommy’s birthday, the 14th of April, not to stay, just to visit.
We drove out to the cemetery together. She hadn’t been there since the day we buried him. She’d never even seen his stone because she left before it was set.
She stood in front of it a long time, reading his name and the two dates and the line underneath that I’d picked out alone.
Catcher, son. Kind to everybody.
Then she knelt down in the wet April grass in her good slacks and put both hands flat on top of that stone, the way she used to put her hand on his forehead when he was little and had a fever.
“Hi, baby,” she said. “Mama’s sorry she’s late.”
I stood beside her in the empty space where I’d always stood alone, and for the first time, it wasn’t empty.
After that, she came back once a month, then every other weekend. In September, she brought her coffee cup from the apartment over the hardware store, and she left it on our kitchen counter. She didn’t say anything about it. Neither did I.
The night she finally brought her suitcase, she stood in the bedroom doorway a long time looking at her side of the closet, her blouses, her church dress, the blue cardigan she wore every Christmas all that time.
“Dale,” she said, “these don’t fit me anymore.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll help you take them down.”
And we did together. We folded every one of them and put them in boxes for the church rummage sale.
And it was the hardest and the best night we’d had since Tommy.
That spring, a box came from the hospice in Scranton. Peg’s things: her Bible, her reading glasses, a stack of birthday cards she’d saved from the grandkids.
At the bottom, in a plastic bag, was an old envelope with my name nowhere on it. It was addressed to Peg. The postmark said Clearfield, Pennsylvania. 11 years ago, there was no return address.
Inside was one line in handwriting I’d have known anywhere.
Tell him I’m alive. Please don’t tell him where. Not yet.
I sat on the kitchen floor with that envelope for an hour. Then I showed it to June.
She sat down beside me, read her own words, and closed her eyes.
“I wrote that,” she said, “four years after I left. I couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking I was dead. But I couldn’t stand you finding me either.”
“Peg knew,” I said. “All that time, Peg knew.”
“She wrote me back,” June said. “Every Christmas to a post office box in Clearfield. Never a word about where I was. Just you, how you were doing. That you still went to the cemetery. That you still wore the ring.”
She put her hand on mine.
“She made me promise to come home before she died. I didn’t make it.”
I thought about Peg in that hospice bed holding my hand. Look somewhere you haven’t. She kept her word to June, and she still found a way to send me in the right direction.
She lives here now. She drives over to Cold Water Gap every Thursday night for the meeting, and I drive with her and make the coffee in the church basement.
Kyle Dunlap has been clean 3 years now. He sends June a picture every year on the anniversary of that night. Last year, he sent it from the Game Warden Academy in Harrisburg.
And last year, the two of us started a meeting here in Mansfield, too, in the basement of the church where we buried Tommy. We call it Tommy’s table. There are 31 people on the list. Every single one of them still alive.
The grocery list is back on the refrigerator, under the magnet shaped like Ohio. But it’s different now. Under “call the cemetery about the stone,” in June’s handwriting, new ink, there’s one more line. It says, “Dale, come to bed.”
Here’s what I want you to take with you. We think the worst thing that can happen is losing somebody. It isn’t. The worst thing is losing them while they’re still alive because of something nobody had the courage to say out loud.
For 15 years, June and I were each carrying the same secret 250 mi apart. Both of us sure we were the only one.
If there’s somebody you’ve stopped talking to, call them. Say the hard thing. You may find out they’ve been carrying it, too.
If this story touched your heart, give it a like so it reaches someone who needs it. Subscribe because there are more stories coming.
And if you or somebody you love is fighting the thing that took my son, please don’t wait for a snowstorm. Reach out tonight. If you’re in the United States, you can call the SAMA National Helpline at 1800662-4357 any hour, Free.
