1I raced into town ahead of the storm. As temperatures plunged into the upper 30's, I gunned the engine, hoping against hope that the shelves wouldn't be picked clean by the panicked denizens of this doomed city. My worst fears were realized when I found only free-range whole chicken breasts left, the pasture-raised organic broilers gone, snatched up by hollow-eyed and desperate men and women who stared down the long corridor of the weekend, and saw only death. A cackling old woman with eyes like frozen starlight ripped the last package of pre-made mirepoix from my basket and hobbled away, screeching of the end, and the deep, dark cold to come. I would have to dice my own vegetables, this night. Joe at the checkout line began his familiar, "Thanks, see ya next time," then faltered, unable to meet my gaze. Would there ever be a "next time"? Neither Joe nor I could say. In the parking lot a man stabbed another man for a Duraflame Log, a scented candle and a wheel of Belgian goat's milk cheese. I hurried past. I flew home into the teeth of the approaching storm front, which spread its gray wings across the sky and bore down with a grim promise of Sleet. Icey, icey Sleet. And the possibility of Flurries. I am home, safe for now, taking small comfort from the gentle flicker of Netflix, and tumbler of Special Reserve Bourbon. Safe, but for how long? Outside, the cold creeps closer. God help us all