I shoved my hands deep into the pockets, my fingers automatically closing on the pocket toys, and I unconsciously rubbed them as I strode along the darkened warehouse street. It was barely ten o’clock at night, but the evening was wickedly cold and my nose was red and running before I had gone three blocks. Snow hung unfallen and heavy in the air, muffling the sounds, distorting them so that the crunch of ice beneath my boot heels had a fourth­-dimension sound, and the yellow lights on the white snow, and the freezing cold all added to a surrealistic aura in the town. It felt deserted.

I felt deserted.

The restaurants and bars were filled to overflow­ing in town, so I avoided the main street, not wanting to deal with drunks or happy talk. I didn’t feel like being lured into the coziness of a fire and brightly colored sweaters worn by people with fresh hair and rosy cheeks.

I scuffled my boots against the packed snow of the sidewalk on the street that paralleled Main.

As I came to the corner of Jack and Poplar streets, I saw Joshua’s little shop, lit up all warm and inviting. In a couple more strides, I saw Joshua, sitting in his customary posture behind the cash register, hefting a paper bag to his lips, then wiping the overflow onto the filthy, ragged cuff of his army jacket.

Visiting with Joshua was an irregular occurrence, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. I pushed the door open and almost gagged in the warm, humid air that smelled like cheap wine and Joshua.

“Hey, Angelina! How are you on this raw night?”

“Cold, Joshua, thank you. And you?”

“Mindin’ the store. Mindin’ the store. Come by for some reading material, or just to jaw?”

“Just some company, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Gets lonesome here. Listen. Look around. I gotta go in the back a minute. Help any customers out if they come in, okay?” He cackled and grabbed his steel crutches from where they leaned against the wall, then made his crippled way through the striped curtain that separated the front of the newsstand from the back room.

The back room, I knew from previous visits, consisted of a filthy toilet, singular washbasin, and stacks and stacks of old magazines and newspapers. The front of the shop was similar—only the magazines and newspapers were somewhat fresher, more current, and the cash register was new. Joshua had told me that the merchants’ association came in every now and then and cleaned up the front for him, washed the floor, painted it up a bit, but they never bothered with the back.