Since the light had a reputation for taking a while, Hannah wiggled her toes inside her boots in an effort to restore warmth and mobility. Then she counted to a hundred. And then two hundred. She had reached five hundred and was mentally composing a letter to the editor of the Lake Eden Journal, expressing the need for a sensor on the stoplight, when it finally clicked to green and she could drive forward again.

Another five minutes and she was turning in at the city limits, driving down the quiet streets with their darkened houses. Everyone was asleep, and she would be too, if she didn’t have to bake the day’s cookies before she opened her coffee shop and bakery, The Cookie Jar.

The Lake Eden business district was deserted at this time of morning. All the stores had dim lights inside, the result of an article Sheriff Grant had written for the Lake Eden Journal on burglary prevention, but nothing was moving inside. It would be another hour before Hal unlocked the front door at the café for the workers on the morning shift at DelRay Manufacturing.

Hannah drove down Main Street and was about to turn on Fourth, when she noticed that the twinkle lights around the inside of the window of her coffee shop were still on. She thought she remembered turning them off, but perhaps she’d forgotten. She had been in a rush to get home last night. Hannah just hoped her power bill wouldn’t be sky high for this one infraction. After all, how much current could a hundred-bulb string of minilights draw? Perhaps she wouldn’t even see an increase. She was usually very careful when it came to turning off the lights and locking up.

As she pulled into the alley, Hannah slowed her truck to a crawl to navigate the icy ruts that a truck had made, delivering donations to the Helping Hands Thrift Shop. A hundred yards and a dozen or so jarring thumps later, she was turning into her own lot and parking in her spot by the back door.

To plug in, or not to plug in. That was the question. Rayne Phillips, the weatherman on KCOW radio, had promised the day would warm to the high twenties. As Hannah climbed out of her truck and eyed the strip of outlets installed at bumper level at the back of her building, she added that bit of information to the mix. If Rayne had it right, she wouldn’t need to use her heater. But if Rayne was wrong, her oil would chill to the consistency of chewing gum and her truck wouldn’t start when it was time to drive home.

Hannah stood still, debating with herself for a moment, and then she laughed. Rayne Phillips had been wrong about the weather more times than he’d been right, and it would be wise to play the percentages. Plugging in her car might be unnecessary, but not plugging in her car could mean she’d have to call Cyril Murphy at the garage.