T
he snow came down steadily, just as the weatherman had predicted it would. It wasn’t yet noon and four inches had already fallen, and by the looks of the sky, a few more inches were on their way before the day was done.
Cap had the truck’s wipers working at a frantic pace, rubber squeaking against the glass. Black Walnut’s Main Street stood barely visible through the windshield. In the center of the village, snow covered the better part of a statue of Reverend Samuel Sturdevant, one of the town’s first white settlers. Virgin snow pretty much concealed everything—sidewalks, fire hydrants, mailboxes, parked cars, and power lines.
He drove past stores and shops that had barely changed over the last thirty years—same brick facades, same hand-painted signage, same worn canvas canopies. Agw
