Originally published in StoryQuarterly.

Catch the Snow

 

Eight, seven, six degrees, and the city becomes a sea thick with stillness. The homeless who were not camouflaged would huddle around dishes of charcoal at their feet, and the cars flopped over barely plowed cobblestone. Five degrees, the news on the radio didn't get turned off or switched to classical music. Four degrees, even the mailman was late. But not the snow-man.

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