I collect them. Some call it stealing. Either way, I can’t help it. They’re just too beautiful. I know I’m supposed to give them to the ones below, but I just can’t. The thought of those people throwing them about, crushing them together, or even worse—I shudder at the mere idea of it—dumping buckets full of that ionic compound on them until the precious things are liquified.

I open the top of one of the boxes where I keep them. I’ve been adding to my collection for the past week, ever since they assigned me to deliver to this county. I take what the factory workers give me and delicately empty the bags into these boxes. Hundreds of beautifully crafted diamonds—all handmade—just for me. Perfect.

Suddenly, I hear shouting at my door. It’s the sheriff; I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“Open up, Jim,” he yells. “We know that you’ve been stealing company merchandise.”

No, I can’t let him have them. He’ll just throw them down to those people. I quickly run to the back door, pull it open, and push the small row of boxes outside. I never realized how heavy these things can be. They start out so light. I look up, and curse. “Nice try, but do you honestly think we wouldn’t come to the back door too?” the deputy asks me with a sneer. I spread out my body as much as I can to cover the boxes. “Move, or I’ll shoot.” He holds out his gun. I refuse to budge.

I hear gunshots, but I swear they didn’t come from the deputy. I start to feel some of the cold diamonds hitting my back. No. I turn around, and there’s the sheriff. He’s shot all three boxes, and before I can stop him, he shoots the boxes again, and my collection spews out in waves. They fall onto the ground, and slip right through the airy floor. Down to those people. I start to weep.

Ben, a second-semester junior, looks out his dorm window.

What was once a 45-degree weekend turned almost instantly to a 25-degree weekday. He looks to the sky, and there are seemingly buckets of snow tumbling toward the ground. Winter is back. Great.