As best he can, Don's stayed out of it. Has treated the flying snow like another swerve in the weather. He pulls his coat around himself and sets his shoulders in a way that's ushered him through rented rooms full of outthrust hands. And except for the snow smearing his shin and one hasty backpedal, it works.

The kids are kids, a reminder he could have lived without. Train them all you want in breaking down bodies, if they get their hands on some snow they'll still pack it into a snowball. The cries flung across the city are giddy and crystalline, seem to hang in the air. He doesn't turn at another voice.

Then snow thumps against his shoulder. He stops, swings slowly around for a look. The sight of her is like a first mouthful of freezing air. “Rusty Dickinson,” he says, in a voice to launch a lecture. He brushes once, twice at his shoulder. For effect, to cover his shock: there's only a scattering of flakes.

He hesitates. He owes her, though what he's not sure. For a fleeting moment he considers saying something, apologizing for a failure he can't even reckon. He swallows. “You better run,” he says instead. Breaks into a smile, lunges toward her. It's a feint, but she'll only have a few seconds before he starts scooping up snow.