Leo squeezed her hand. “Yes,” he said. “Welcome to winter.”
He pointed a long finger at the window. “For Mr. Chen next door? Winter starts the day he brings in his ceramic Buddha from the garden. He says the cold is bad for its chi. And for Mrs. Galloway down the street, winter starts the first time she hears the sanding trucks on the hill. She says the grit sounds like a giant cat sharpening its claws.”
Her father, Leo, was sitting in his worn armchair, a wool blanket pulled up to his chin. He was watching the same gray scene, a mug of tea cooling, untouched, in his hands.