I printed it and put it in the folder.
Thursday night it snowed another four inches. Friday morning there was still no plow. I looked out and saw Hector in his scrubs and his parka, out in the drift at the end of his driveway with a shovel, trying to dig a path to a road that wasn’t there. He had a shift at the hospital at seven. He’d already called in once.
My phone rang. Irene.
“My propane’s on reserve,” she said. Her voice was very steady, which is how I knew she was scared. “The delivery man called. He can’t get the truck in. He says he’s not risking it on a private road nobody’s plowed.”
“How much do you have?”
“The gauge says ten percent. He says that might be two days if I keep it at sixty.”
“Keep it at sixty-five,” I said. “Put a sweater on Gizmo.”
