Josh woke up on the couch in his studio apartment. The room was dark; the sun had been down at least an hour. He was in his clothes, under his red-and-black Hudson Bay blanket. Two cold pieces of microwave pizza lay at the edge of the table in front of him. The ancient TV with its rabbit ears glowed across the room. He sat up and pulled the blanket around his shoulders, felt a cold draft across his bare feet. He stared at the TV screen. The sound was off, but he saw the weatherman gesture across a video map of Alaska. A bulging front — a phalanx of brightly shining snow crystals — was marching down from the Arctic Circle. Josh rose up with the blanket and walked like a monk to the window. Cold air was seeping into the room right through the bathroom towel he'd jammed into the bottom of the sill. The pane of glass had spawned crystals of frost. He rubbed a circle with his palm until a hole cleared he could see through. Outside, street lamps lit the swirling snow, and a broken beer sign at the corner market swung creaking in the wind.
