What was he doing in a blizzard? Was the man out of his mind? Where had he come from? Who was he? No one in their right frame of thinking would brave the blizzard. No way. But there he was, brawny and puffy and white like a human-size marshmallow at the edge of my property, studying me as I studied him. Two souls coming together on the most frigid day—two degrees Fahrenheit—of the New Year. One of the coldest days of that year that I can now remember.
He called through the torrent in my direction. At first, I didn’t hear what he had said because of the blustery and snow-driven tempest, but placed his broken- and windy-sounding holler into a sentence: “Can you help me?”
Of course, I would. Man or woman. No one could survive in such a storm; at least not someone mortal. Who was I to tell h
