Seven-year-old Beth Mitchell knows three things for certain: ice cream trucks don't run in winter, they don't play music at 3 AM, and their drivers shouldn't have smiles that stretch from ear to ear—literally.
But try telling that to her overworked single mom, or to the police investigating why kids keep disappearing from their beds on frozen January nights. Only Beth sees the pristine white van that leaves frost in its wake, hears the warped melody of "Pop Goes the Weasel" drifting through the Minnesota winter, and notices how neighborhood children stand hypnotized in their driveways, swaying to music only they can hear.
When her best friend becomes the ice cream man's next target, Beth must confront a horrifying truth: there's something ancient and hungry behind that too-wide smile, something that feeds on more than just ice cream money. And if the adults won't believe her, she'll have to stop him herself.
Because Beth knows a fourth thing for certain—if you hear the ice cream truck in the middle of the night, don't open your window.
Don't wave him down.
And whatever you do, don't buy his ice cream.
It tastes like childhood.
And he's hungry for every last bite.
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