Jayme Lawson The Penguin -

Inside was not a derelict warehouse. It was a cathedral of ice. Frozen waterfalls cascaded from the ceiling. The floor was polished mirror-smooth. And in the center of it all, rising from a throne of crystalline frost, was a man made entirely of frozen starlight.

She’d seen doctors. Specialists. A man who claimed to read auras and suggested she was “emotionally allergic to summer.” Nothing worked. So Jayme simply adapted. She wore snow boots in July, slept with a small fan pointed at her feet (the heat they generated was, paradoxically, unbearable to the rest of her), and avoided carpeted areas. jayme lawson the penguin

The trouble began on a Tuesday. She was walking home from the bus stop when she saw it: a puddle. Not a rain puddle, but a long, glistening smear of meltwater on the sidewalk. And at the end of the smear, waddling with purpose toward a storm drain, was a small, disgruntled-looking penguin. Inside was not a derelict warehouse

One night, as Jayme sat reading, Popsicle hopped onto her lap, pecked her kneecap sharply, and waddled to the door. It did this seven times. Finally, sighing, she followed. The floor was polished mirror-smooth

Jayme looked down at her ugly snow boots. She looked at Popsicle, who gave a solemn nod. And for the first time in her life, she smiled—a wide, genuine, slightly frosty smile.

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, her breath misting in the air.

Over the next week, the penguin—whom she reluctantly named Popsicle—refused to leave. It followed her to the library, waited outside the door, and slid on its belly across the condensation trail she left behind. It stole her frozen peas and tucked them under its wing. It slept on a bag of ice at the foot of her bed.