Simon hears something behind him and looks over his shoulder at the blanket-hung doorway. He sees the spunky cloth move and a girl steps out. She isn’t older than twelve. She is wearing a grimy Vikings T-shirt that reaches to her knees and nothing else, her legs are streaked and her hair tangled. She scratches her leg and Simon can see she is barely flossed between her coltish legs and she looks at Simon from under her hair like a kickaway dog. She leans into the makeshift door frame for protection and whimpers.

“For fuck’s sake, T-Man. Didn’t know you had company.”

T-Man looks at her and then back at the fire.

“Go back to bed. I’ll be there in a second.”

“What the fuck are you doin?” asks Simon.

T-Man shrugs.

“It’s already been done. Too much antifreeze and not enough Wheaties. I’m just stayin warm before it’s over.”

“I gotta go.”

“You gonna eat?”

Simon stands and zips his coat.

“I’ll tell you if I hear anything, Si. I’ll find you.”

Simon nods but can’t say anything. He fights his way up the trail until he emerges slapped and gasping on the narrow sidewalk that runs skinny but true on the high shoulder of the street.

29

Christmas has come and gone and Vera thinks she is seeing ghosts. She catches sight of a figure out of the corner of her eye, next to the iron fence around the old train shed, the Ceresota grain elevator in the background, then it turns out of sight, like a bird that launches so quickly it looks as if it has vanished.

Her heart quickens. She takes three rapid steps, her arm stretched in front, the way mothers call children to their side from across the room. She stops, thinking it is absurd. Lester is dead, after all. Why does this always have to happen in the winter, when the cold locks you down so hard, your legs stiff, nothing about you or your life prepared for action?

She pulls her jacket tighter and strides toward home. The sounds of traffic, of people frantic to escape the downtown and the dreariness of work, mix with the rush of the river. She crosses the street and can’t help herself, cannot stop from looking down Washington to see if he is still there, pressed flat like a TV criminal against a wall. No one. She is not the kind of person who sees things.