“Take care.” With a wave, she backs up. The wheels spin as she pulls onto the road.

I direct my attention to the red Suburban. A forty-something woman, clad in a long, camel-colored coat and contrasting scarf, slides out and starts toward me. “You must be Kate Miller!”

“Hi.” I wade through the snow. “Mrs. Bowman?”

“Nice to meet you, honey.” She sticks out her hand without removing her leather driving glove, then motions toward the trailer. “Would you like to see the interior?”

“I would.”

She shivers and looks upward at the lowering clouds. “Dreadful weather. Don’t let the cold change your mind about moving here. This part of New York is gorgeous in the summertime.”

“The trees are nice.”

She tilts her head as if trying to decide if I’m being facetious, decides I’m not. “I keep a clean place here. Heat works good. Plumbing, too. I take care of it myself, and believe me, I’m careful about who I rent to.”

“I understand.”

“Let’s get out of this blasted cold. Bring your suitcase and box.” She’s wearing boots with two-inch heels and wobbles slightly as she toddles through the snow. We go up metal steps, and standing on the metal deck, she jabs a key into a flimsy-looking knob lock. “I require first and last month’s rent, and a one-hundred-dollar deposit. I pay all the utilities.” She glances over at me, her eyes taking in my dress. “You won’t be needing electricity, correct?”

“No.” But I’m silently praying I’ll have access to power to charge my phones.

The door swings open to a living room that smells of Pine-Sol and mothballs. Faux-wood paneling. Gold curtains. A mustard-brown sofa squats on newish beige carpeting. The air temperature hovers just above freezing.

“I had the carpet put in last year,” she tells me, our footsteps muted as we walk inside. “Had it professionally shampooed last week after the last tenant moved out, so probably best if you take your shoes off when you come in.” She sniffs, her brows lowering. “I swear the last tenant kept a cat in here. Never saw the litter box, but that smell…”

A bar-height counter separates the living room from a small kitchen to my right. An old-fashioned kerosene lamp sits atop the bar. The kitchen is comprised of cheap cabinets and circa 1970s wallpaper. Avocado-colored refrigerator and stove. A stainless-steel sink mottled with hard-water spots. A laminate table with two matching chairs is shoved against the bay window. A smaller kerosene lamp sits in the center and not for the first time I’m reminded that I’ll be spending my evenings in the dark.

“It’s a twelve-by-fifty-foot Liberty. I think it was built in the late 1970s. Built them solid back then.” Mrs. Bowman motions toward a narrow hall. “Two bedrooms and a bath back there. Got lamps in every room, but you’ll need to buy your own kerosene.”

I’m trying to think of a way to ask her about electricity without letting on that I’m planning to use it. “What about heat?”