That night I was locking the side entrance of the garage, preparing to walk home through the storm, when I heard a desperate pounding against the metal door. The sound was frantic, uneven, terrified, and I nearly ignored it because no sane person would be outside in such weather unless something was terribly wrong. Curiosity and conscience pushed me to pull the door open, and in the blast of cold air I saw a couple clutching a small girl wrapped in a thin coat soaked with snow.
The man introduced himself as Peter Gray, his voice trembling from cold and fear, while his wife Allison tried to calm their daughter whose teeth chattered so hard she could barely speak. Their car had died several blocks away, the heater had failed, and they had seen the faint glow of my garage lights through the storm like a promise in the dark. I did not ask for payment or explanation. I ushered them inside, guided them to the worn sofa in my office, and poured hot coffee from a thermos I kept for long nights.