Archie was betting the Arrivals were fantastic in fog. Couldn’t they detect pedestrians at the side of the road, even at night, even if the car’s headlights were off? And how did they do that? Could the cars detect heat? The warmth of a human body? Kind of like the Predator, in those movies, when it picked up thermal images of those poor, doomed dudes trying to track it?

The fog was thickening. Pretty soon, even the cars watching Archie would be hard to see.

He had an idea.

Archie left the loading dock area and went back into the meat department. There had to be a locker. A meat locker. Where they kept everything really, really cold.

He found it in no time. He grasped the heavy metal handle on the door and swung it wide, feeling the cold air flow over him. He stepped into a room filled with sides of beef hanging on hooks like bloodied punching bags. He closed the door, careful not to let it latch. The last thing he wanted was to be locked in here. After everything that had gone down today, wouldn’t it be a kick in the head, he thought, to freeze to death?

Which was, he instantly realized, a distinct possibility if that door did lock. It was motherfucking cold in here.

He spotted a thermometer affixed to the wall, easy to find under the fluorescent lights. It had Fahrenheit on one side, Celsius on the other. Archie didn’t know anything about Celsius, but he sure knew that 33°F was downright chilly. And he didn’t need any thermometer to tell him. He was shivering.

Archie figured, if he could stay here long enough to lower his external temperature, and if the fog outside became thicker, he might be able to walk right past those damn cars without their even seeing him.

Hey, it was a plan.

The immediate question was how long could he stand it in here. He figured he would give himself five minutes. There was a wall-mounted clock to help him keep track of the time.

After ninety seconds, his teeth were chattering. He briefly wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his shoulders to keep warm, then decided that was defeating the purpose. He needed to be cold. Don’t warm up any part of you. Who was that singer? The one who wore a dress made out of meat years ago? Lady Gaga? Yeah, that was what he needed. A cold meat outfit.

Okay, maybe he didn’t have to go that far.

But he did see, on a wall hook, a butcher’s frock—a white, long-sleeved, shirt-like jacket that went almost to the knees. Given that it was hanging in here, wouldn’t it be as cold as the room?

Shivering more violently, he took the coat off the hook and slipped it on. If the fog was thick enough, a white jacket would offer even more camouflage.