The sun briefly appears, skimming the horizon with a careless stroke, like a ballerina posturing boredom. Swoop. There. Did you see me sweep my arm just so? The cold has been desperate. Minus forty by either scale, the temperatures have hovered in the dangerous range for most of the winter.

It’s my first winter in Saskatchewan. On the first decent day, I bundle two-year-old Zachary for a walk. He’s not pleased, smothered under snow pants, toque, and parka, but he finds a pair of his sister’s sunglasses. Knowing they are forbidden, he perches them on his nose and waddles out of the house with a smirk.

I long to speak to another human, one who doesn’t feign politeness like my husband on a noontime phone call, or shriek like Zachary when cartoons are turned off. I’d just like a word, a line exchanged with another person who finds winter as unspeakable as I do.

I plop Zachary in his stroller and tuck an oversized wool scarf around his chubby legs for extra warmth. He rests his arms on the stroller’s side bits like a noble warlord surveying his domain. “Go go go!” he yells.

We set off down the street, over the area remembered as the sidewalk, buried many snowstorms ago. Meeting a city plow, we dodge into a driveway while the blades pass, pushing snow, but still not revealing the sidewalk. Zachary is mesmerized by the immensity of the machine. His gaze follows the slow rotations of the massive tires. He chants, “Tac-ter! Tac-ter!” as the plow passes.

“Yes, darling,” I intone. “A TRAC-tor. A TRAC-tor.”

I push the stroller again, head down, arms straight, the stroller wheels spinning in the snow. I’m determined, though. We will not be housebound by winter. We will make it around the block, at least.

After two turns down the street, with two more to go, we approach a teenager walking a pair of spaniels. Eager to investigate every splotch of yellow snow, the dogs slow the boy down despite his remonstrations: “Come on, girls! Come on!”

We easily pass him and I chirp a pleasantry in his general direction, not expecting a teenager to respond to a middle-aged woman ramming a baby stroller up the street. But he does respond. With great enthusiasm.

“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” he says. “Just lovely! Warmest it’s been in ages. There might even be snow melting!”

I stop to look at the boy. He’s a tall lad, probably fifteen or sixteen. He’s well-dressed and wears stylish, black-rimmed glasses. He looks very pleasant, but he chatters at an alarming pace: “Not like Christmas. Oh, golly! What a storm we had then. This is so much better. And not so cold either!”

“Do enjoy your walk!” I call then hurry on. I don’t want the boy to gain the distance between us. I don’t want to be obliged to walk up the street with him. I feel awful for my avoidance. I should chat with him. Make him feel heard. Seen. Wasn’t that what I wanted? A conversation? A connection with a human?

It’s frightening though, finding someone as lonely as oneself.