It was cold. She felt it in the marrow of her bones, in every convulsive, irrepressible shiver. The chill crept through her sweaters (3), snuck past the wool of her socks, and slithered into her scarf. She hunched down, folding into a compact ball that maybe, just maybe, could keep her a little bit warmer. She rubbed her hands together. She rocked back and forth. She exhaled into her hands and trapped the heat against her face, all to no avail. The night looked black outside her window, and cold. Night is an honest man, she thought. She wasn’t sure if it was a happy thought or a sad one.