It had been unnaturally warm the month before. Animals were confused; not sure if they should migrate or stay. In fact, the whole world seemed confused: Freezing in Texas, unheard of snow totals in Denver, but not enough at the ski resorts.

I had been telling anyone that would listen; New Hampshire was the new Florida. Not many people listened.

But when the warmth stopped, it not only stopped, it retreated like a Frenchman running from the Maginot line.

The cold was colder for the abrupt change, the harsh juxtaposition from hot to cold, like love to hate to indifference. It was no surprise that there were footprints that led up to the basement door, footprints in the snow that appeared human from the second level of the house, but not so much from the basement. Maybe someone had tried the basement door to find respite from the cold, even if it was an unheated basement, it would have been better, anything would have been better than to be exposed to these fatal temperatures. While the basement door was not locked, no one had taken up residence the last time I looked, still the prints were disconcerting and it was time to put a lock on the door.

On the left side of the garage floor, there was white ice that had fallen off of the Subaru the week before, it had not melted and probably wouldn’t melt for months. The garage was not heated, and needed more insulation and an insulated door. But these were chores that would just have to get in line: owning a house was like stopping a flood with a spoon. Still it felt warm; sunlight always makes it feel warmer than it actually is.