Donna Clipp moved steadily forward. The tollbooth was long out of sight, and she knew she must be reaching the apex of the long suspended walkway now. The wind was moaning. Every now and then, the moan turned to a howl, as though some vast, angry leviathan were thrashing about in the harbor and the East River below, some huge sea serpent intent upon claiming her as its prey. The snow had already stung her face until it was numb. She had forgotten that, in that high, empty exposure over the water, the cold would be worse, far worse, and she knew that if she didn’t find some shelter soon, she’d get frostbite. Perhaps she could die.

Donna Clipp didn’t want to die. That wasn’t in her plans at all, for a long time yet.

So there was nothing to do, but make her way through this terrible white tunnel in the sky, and get down the other side.

Progress was painfully slow. If she let go of the rail for even a moment, she could be blown off her feet and hurled down into the abyss. All she could do was keep a tight hold on the rail, and pull herself across, step by step. She knew she mustn’t stop. If she could just get to the other side. If she could just keep going.

She managed to reach the halfway point. From there, it was a long descent. She managed another hundred yards. Then another. Then, just ahead of her, she saw something that gave her a shock.

And she stopped.

The blizzard continued all that day. Some people called it the White Hurricane. But soon they had another name for it. Given the snowbound wastes that, rightly or wrongly, were associated with the territory, they called it the Dakota Blizzard.

If the city was impassable that day, a few strongholds tried at least to make a showing. Macy’s department store opened for a bit, but no customers came, and the poor lady clerks had to be sheltered there until the Dakota Blizzard was done, since they could not get home. Some banks tried to open, but decided to extend all their loans a few days, since nobody could reach them. The New York Stock Exchange opened, and even traded a few shares that Monday morning. But there were only a handful of men there, and soon after midday, they sensibly gave up.

Of the few shares traded, none concerned the Hudson Ohio Railroad. For Mr. Cyrus MacDuff was quite unable to give orders for any trades since the telegraph lines between Boston and New York were all down. Nor could that furious gentleman come to save his railroad in person, since every road was feet-deep in snow, the rail lines were all blocked, and the sea was so wild with the storm that ships along that coastline were sinking by the score.