Big trucks filled the highway to Watson City like normal. They were moving slowly, though, because of the weather. Kyle could see dust devils of snow kicked up by dual rear wheels caught in the lights of oncoming trucks. He made a V with his fingers and raised his hand to his mouth. This morning, he thought, he was smoking a big cigar. He was much warmer than he’d been the morning before although the snow had continued through the night. Steam rose from the collar of his coat when he paused on the bluff because he was sweating. It was hard work pedaling through three inches of untracked snow, and he had to keep stopping and cleaning packed snow from his tires. His new Thinsulate gloves in camo made it a challenge to fish individual copies of the Tribune out of his canvas panniers—but he didn’t mind. While pausing to catch his breath, Kyle lowered his new Sorel Pac boots to the ground and balanced his bike. He couldn’t stop for too long, he knew, or the chill would set in. That old gnome Alf Pedersen had told him someone had complained the day before about Kyle tossing the last of his newspapers on their driveway at 6:45—fifteen minutes late.
