Everything is white. There is a thick blanket of snow lying over the entire scene. Even the lamp post has a cone of snow on it. And there, the man driving the horse and sleigh, his long black coat is dotted with flakes, the tops of his red mittens are covered in white dust. And the tree, oh, look, look how heavy the snow must be on it, its boughs sag under the weight! But the lights on the tree, red and green and blue, see how they shine through the holes in the snow. Is it really like this?

No, not really. Not here anyway, the man tells her.

The snow looks so fluffy. I just want to hide under that thick blanket and be warm again.

It's not warm. It is very cold. You would freeze. They just make it look like this for the store's window display, he says.

I know that. I just want to pretend for a minute, to imagine that I am warm again.

The man takes her small hands and squeezes them together. He clasps his other hand over hers and she feels his heat. She warms inside. Her heart, not her hands, is where the warming begins, and with the flow of blood through her body, she feels his heat move through her, through her chest and groin and legs; into her arms and face and hands. She is kindled by his touch, fired by his love.

The winter scene behind the glass begins to fade into a blur, as tears form in her eyes. The window display, the snowman, the trees, the skating pond, the horse-drawn sleigh, all become a smear of white and coloured lights. She feels the hot sting of a tear on her frozen cheek. He is so warm, always so warm. She loves his warmth. She loves the man.

Behind the glass the shopkeeper, balding head, bulging belly, waves to them with scorn and shouts. She doesn't understand his language but she knows what he is saying: Go. Get. Move along. Nothing for you here. Like they are dogs or rats or some other nuisance pest. Immigrants. Refugees. Job-stealers. Invaders. Terrorists.

She feels him squeeze her hand, and he guides them away from the window. She doesn't want to move, but he gently points his grip to the street. The girl tries to sniff back the tears that are forming, but the sniff becomes a whimper, the whimper, a sob. They step back, into the street, and join the river of feet that are moving through the night. Flowing north, fleeing.

She has been so strong, for so long. Her home outside Al-Hasakah is a lifetime away now. It is gone, surely. The clinic is gone too, the room where she burnt every last ounce of energy, back bent, huddled over the women, dressing their open wounds, the smell of death and antiseptic, the cries of children and men, blinded and deaf and armless. The shaking of the earth and plaster dust settling, like snow, on the red hands of the other nurses.

They stayed as long as they could. It had not been safe for quite some time, but the medics and neighbours would keep bringing in the wounded, and as long as there was light and water they would work. When the gauze was gone they used bedsheets, torn into strips; she would hold the tattered cloth to the light, trying to see which side looked to have less dirt and blood on it, and would place that side up, away from the wound.

But then the bombing started. She didn't know who was dropping the bombs, or if they came from guns far away, or who was shooting. It didn't matter. When the last remaining light bulb flickered for the final time, she wiped her hands on her cloak, and left the crumbling walls of the clinic. Her bag, already packed, lay among the fallen plaster and bricks next to the door. She opened it, took out her cell phone, and sent him the text message. I can leave now.

And tonight, she can finally let go. She is with him. He pulls her tight against his body, but before the sobs become a wail, he breathes into her ear. Shh, not now my love. You must be strong again, just for a little while. We will rest soon.

He nudges her forward and, once again, they are moving at the pace of the other walkers. They fall into step behind a mother, her black cloak billowing, two young boys beside her, their arms full with blankets, a duffle bag and a teddy bear. They have hats, wool hats, and the girl is relieved to see that the mother is wise, and thinks to herself: I wish I knew that we would still be walking in winter, I wish that I hadn't given my blanket away to that little girl, I wish—she tugs her scarf higher and wraps it over her head, like a hijab. He looks at her and smiles, his white teeth contrasting the dark skin. She knows what he is thinking, that he is a Muslim, not her.

The march continues into the night for the thousands upon thousands of her countrymen, women and children, marching in their exodus. The path has been defined for them, first by wooden road barriers, later by chain fences and now, she sees, recently erected barbed wire and rolls of razor wire lining the route through this village. She doesn't know where they are. He might, but it doesn't matter. Just like it doesn't matter who bombed their home. It only matters that she is with him.

Do you think it will snow tonight?

We don't want snow, dear. This is not how you will see your first snow. You will see it another time, when we get to Canada.

Tell me about Christmas.

He laughs a low, warming laugh. You are the one who was raised a Christian. You should know about Christmas.

I know the story, but tell me again about how it is celebrated. In America, or in the North, where there is snow. Is it like that window display?

My love, my love. You are so beautiful. I want to show you ice on the river. We will walk to the park where the pond is frozen, and we will rent skates. I will kneel before you and tie boots onto your feet, boots with a blade on them; you will try to stand, and I will hold you up, and you will screech when you feel your feet slide from under you. And then it will start to snow. Big flakes, like leaves, will slowly fall from the sky. We will try to catch them in our mouths, with our tongues. There will be music playing and bells ringing. There will be peace.

His story warms her. She forgets about her feet, forgets that she can no longer feel her toes. She asks him, did you skate when you were in Montreal?

No, my love. I had no one to skate with. So I came back to get you, so we could skate together. We need to hold each other up.

That was the first time he returned to her, during the war. This man, her love, traveled halfway around the world to come back to the ruins of their country, for her. He, who had so much opportunity and comfort and food, left it all to come for her. He could have stayed, extended his student visa, added another year to his Engineering program at the university. He could have taken a job in Canada or in the United States, where it didn't matter if he were Sunni or Shiite, Christian or Jew. He could have made the arrangements to have her join him. Surely, they need nurses in America too.

But he came back, for her. You need to leave now, he kept telling her. We can fly to Canada. We can tell them that your home is being bombed. That you, a Christian woman, are no longer safe in your country. They will listen, they will let you stay, with me.

But she wouldn't listen. They needed her, her people, her town. So he waited, among the dust and the rubble, for her to finish her work. And by the time there was nothing left of the clinic, the camps were full, the roads were closed and there was no other way out but to join the mass exodus to Europe. In the eyes of the world, they were now displaced persons. Two displaced persons, together.

She turns her gaze from him and looks to the road. They are leaving the village, heading down a hill, into the countryside. There are hills in the distance, and trees and fields. The razor wire fence is gone now, replaced by hastily-hammered white signs on the edge of the road, showing a hieroglyphic of a walker and a child, hand in hand, with a red line crossing through it. Christmas colours, he says, as he points to the sign.

The last time he returned to her was two weeks ago. He didn't know they would be separated. He didn't know they would close the border.

When they reached the border there was the expected mass of people waiting. They were sleeping in piles, using another's legs for a pillow. Medecins sans Frontieres had set up a tent to treat the travellers who needed care.

Go, get looked at, he said. I'll go on ahead and see if I can find electricity to charge my phone.

He was trying to call his research chair at the university in Canada. Once a refugee from another forgotten war, this professor had fled on an overloaded Vietnamese boat, to become a prominent scientist and academic. He could help them get out of here, if only they could reach him. But they needed a charged phone.

The doctors gave her new clothes. The loose fitting track pants and sweater were much warmer and more comfortable than her jeans. They gave her a cot to sleep on while she waited to be seen by the doctor. She was grateful to know that her health was as good as expected. They told her what would happen, what to look for, but she already knew. She is a nurse.

But he was on the other side when they closed the gate. Go on, they told him, go on by yourself. We don't know if this border will ever be open again. Go while you can.

But he didn't. He stayed, hiding on the other side, waiting for her for weeks while the crowds grew, until the word whispered through the sea of crushed bodies that they would let some pass. She was allowed to proceed, and when she finally cleared the guards and the fences, he was there, waiting for her. She ran into his arms and as he held her tight, he told her that he would never leave her side again. We need to hold each other up, he said.

I'm sorry, she says, I can go no further.

Don't be sorry. You have been very strong my love. You have been my strength too. We will rest soon.

I need to pee again.

She hates having to find a place to relieve herself. Next to sleeping on the ground or in a bus shelter or on a curb, going to the bathroom is the most demeaning aspect of their journey. It must be worse for the older women, those for whom modesty is beyond compromise. She appreciated the toilet facilities at the border, but here, on the road again, there is no such comfort or discretion.

He quietly points to their left. A line of trees meet the roadway and lead through sheep pastures, and in the distance, to a small farm, a farm house and a barn. He takes a quick look over his shoulder, and pulls her into the darkness of the trees.

The barn is little more than a feed shed with three sides enclosed, but it is still shelter from the cold north wind that blows in from the mountains. There is straw, hay, a feed trough and water. This is perfect, she says. Tonight we will finally sleep.

While she relieves herself behind the shed, he pulls some straw together to make a mattress. She returns to see the scene before her: he is seated on the straw bed, his hand beckoning her to join him; warmth, comfort, the scent of dried grass, and his smile fill the stable. She kneels in front of him and places her lips on his. They are warm. She feels the softness of his beard. His arms wrap around her but this time her shivering doesn't stop. His heat won't be enough tonight.

Then she sees movement. A light is approaching, from the farmhouse, bobbing with footsteps. She nudges him and points. They freeze, in fear. The lovers are trapped in the feed shed with no way out, unable to run.

The white light shines in their eyes, blinding them. They are helpless, lying together in the straw bed. A man approaches and stops at the entrance of the shed, pausing for a moment. His frame is large, solid and unmoving. Through the light she thinks she sees the shape of something in his other hand, something that he places on the dirt before them. There is no word spoken, no gesture, no shot fired. The light turns and shines the way it came, back to the farmhouse. The aroma of beets and onions and spice fill the stable. Before them is a pot with a handle of a ladle protruding from the top. Soup, steaming and life sustaining. Tonight, they will be warm.

And later, after they finish the last of the broth and bread, they lie together under his coat, and she presses tightly against him; she feels the heat of his hand slide under her sweater and his rough fingers trace a path along her bare skin, across her belly. She feels the sharp jab from within her.

Did you feel that? she asks.

Yes, was that a foot?

The baby is happy again.

He holds her close and this time, the tears are in his eyes. She gently kisses his cheeks, one at a time, below each of his eyes and the taste reminds her of summer, of when they crossed the sea.

Oh, my love, she says. You have been so good to me. You have sustained me, and our child. You have held me up, like we are skating. You have brought us here and here we shall stay, for a while. It won't be long now, my love. I know.

What shall we call the child?

We shall call the child Emmanuel, my love.