Blowing snow, falling temperatures. There were few signs of spring. City workers were hauling truckloads of snow down to the river and dumping it. Harriet Island across from the Ramsey County jail was growing into a small white mountain. Most of his days were spent in court, but in the evening Dixon Bell would be transported back to St. Paul and returned to D Pod, Cell 340. He watched some television, mostly mindless game shows and old movies. No more news-not even Andrea. His evenings were spent sitting on his bunk staring out the window. Staring south. The Mississippi River was frozen, a pristine highway of unbroken snow flowing beneath the bridges and around the bend. Street lamps up and down the bluffs were yellow, like fireflies, and their reflection off the white earth created a candlelight glow. The only bright lights were at the foot of the Wabasha Street Bridge above a billboard advertising Sky High News. Splat Man, where are you?
