I find more than enough firewood. At one site, someone left half a bundle when they cleared out. I try to use the cigarette lighter from the car to light it, but the wood sizzles and won’t catch. I eat the rest of the cookies from Irene’s apartment and sit in my car, wrapped in sheets like a mummy to stay warm, waiting for dark.

The sun is at the horizon when my eyes get heavy, and then when I wake up, it’s the darkest dark I’ve ever seen and my hands are so cold I can barely move my fingers. I feel like the cold has seeped into my bones and will never go away.

Margo went through this phase where she believed in visualizing what you want. She had a series of cassette tapes that talked about holding pictures in your mind until they become reality. I try to think warm, picturing a hot sun melting away icicles that are stuck in my bones like pushpins, the melted water dripping into a warm bath, steam opening my pores. I try hard. It’s clear in my mind, but the cold won’t let go.

I fumble around for my flashlight and pull every warm piece of clothing I can from the back seat. Then I head out with R.S.’s screwdriver in my bag, bundled in so many layers I can barely bend my arms at the elbows.

At ten thirty in Little River, things are dying down. Gary’s Tap Room is the one place still open and even the crowd there will start to grumble about getting home. Only hardcore loyals stay until midnight, when Gary closes.

Ithaca is alive. People on porches smoking. Music leaks from open doors. Bob Marley, Grateful Dead, and that Chili Pepper band Matty’s cousin from New York City taped for him off the radio, all swirl together, making a big stew of sound. I have to walk right past the kit car house. I can’t follow through with my plan until everyone goes to bed, so I wander up one street, down the next, looking in lit up living rooms from the sidewalk like I’m window-shopping for people.

There’s a girl perfectly framed in one window, holding a red plastic cup and spinning around. Her long hair flares like a skirt. There’s just enough light from the flickering porch lamp that I can see a guy out there smoking, staring at her through the glass as if she’s magic. She has no idea he’s watching her. She throws one arm into the air and spins faster, finally collapsing on a couch in front of the window. The smoking guy moves away like he doesn’t want to get caught.