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Detroit, Michigan, USA
29th of January, 6:00 a.m. (GMT-5)
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The alarm sounded, followed shortly by a groan. It was too early and too cold to get up. Teresa Maria Martinez ventured just enough of her body out from under the covers and groped for her mobile. Once it was safely cocooned with her under the heavy comforter, she switched off the alarm and checked the weather: five degrees below zero and twelve inches of accumulation overnight.
“Oh good, it snowed. Again,” she said out loud to her empty room. Martinez pulled on her clothes from last night, still sandwiched together in layers. First, she slid her feet into a pair of thick woolen socks that contained a pair of thin cotton tube socks inside, pulling them as high over her calves as possible. Then, she wriggled into the yoga pants that were nestled into her sweat pants. She owned long johns, but the thought of putting them on seemed unduly difficult this morning. Even a bra sounded hard.
Next, she wove her arms through the long-sleeved t-shirt that was underneath another knit top and a sweatshirt. When all three neck openings came into alignment, she popped her head through. She lingered a few more minutes, not long enough to fall back asleep but until her clothes no longer felt cold. After she had captured as much warmth as possible, she slipped out of bed, whipped her hair into a rough bun, and went downstairs.
She stopped by the kitchen to switch on the coffee maker before proceeding to the mudroom, running her hands over the outerwear she’d hung up yesterday: a puffy parka, thick insulated gloves, and a plaid hunter’s hat with earflaps. Intellectually, she knew that snow was frozen water, but it still astounded her just how wet everything got when she messed with the white stuff.
It was hard to tell if they were damp because they were cold to the touch, but they were dry enough for the task at hand—the snow wasn’t going to move itself off her driveway. In Oregon, a foot of snow would have closed schools and been a passable excuse for a late start at the FBI. In Michigan, it was just another Wednesday—quit your bellyaching and start shoveling. She suited up and pulled on her snow boots, fortifying herself with the thought that she would have a hot cup of coffee waiting for her when she was done.
At first, she had been determined to enjoy the snow. She’d watched the pristine beauty of freshly fallen powder from the warmth of her Corktown home, often with a mug of hot chocolate or tea in hand. She’d made snow angels and snowmen in the backyard. She’d even tried her hand at ice skating in the brisk open air. And there was the undeniable charm of a white Christmas. But as the weeks turned into months, the novelty wore thin.
January was the coldest and driest month in Michigan, but all the precipitation that did fall came down as snow that accumulated, making it the snowiest month of the year. It was the very peak of the season, and there was definitely a Jack London man-versus-nature vibe as Martinez tucked her messy bun into her hat for a snug fit. The garage was chilly but bearable with the heat pouring out of the open vent. There were puddles of water from the snow that had melted off her black Dodge Hellcat overnight. She braced herself for the frigid air before opening the garage door to the dark sky. She felt a little like Elmer Fudd in the getup, except instead of a hunting rifle, she was armed with a Craftsman.
Never one to be caught unprepared, Martinez had gone shopping for a snow blower just as all the Halloween decorations hit the shelves. She’d figured waiting until the first snowfall would only drive the prices up and reduce availability. After weighing all her options, she begrudgingly admitted that she had reached the age where “treat yo’ self” meant springing for the deluxe snow blower and purchased a two-stage machine with all the bells and whistles.
Martinez inserted the key and pushed the start button. She’d had enough run-ins with pull-start lawnmowers to elect for an electric start, especially since below-freezing temperatures only made motors more temperamental. As advertised, the cold engine roared to life.
She switched on the headlights from the central control panel, a practical feature given the whopping four hours of sunlight Detroit received on average this time of year. Using the joystick on the console, she adjusted the angle of the discharge chute before attacking the first swath of driveway.
She guided the blower with ease; the self-propulsion and power steering—engaged by a lever on the right handle—took the muscle work out of it. The snow was heavy and wet, but the corkscrew-like augur cut through the sheet of white, pushing it into the center housing before propelling it out the shaft. A snowy arc cleared the ridge from yesterday’s plowing, and fat flurries landed on her as the wind picked up stray snowflakes and flung them back into the air. She made quick work of the driveway and her stretch of the sidewalk, adjusting the pitch and orientation of the chute with each change in direction.
There had been a learning curve. It wasn’t the sort of thing a West Coast girl had to know. Sure, it sometimes snowed in Oregon, especially in the mountainous regions, but everything just shut down while Oregonians waited for it to melt. For years, the state didn’t even salt the roads. And if it snowed during a visit to her dad in Colorado, he would have it taken care of before she even got out of bed. Little did she know how much effort he’d put in while she was asleep so they could simply pull out of the driveway whenever they wanted.
Having the right hardware was just the beginning, and there was definitely a science to it. First, she got a practical refresher on geometry—how to efficiency cover the area with as few passes as possible, and how to angle the chute to get the snow to land where she wanted it. Then she learned that she had to shoot the snow further out than she thought to make sure there was enough space to clear everything, because there might not be significant compaction or melting before the next snowfall. She eventually figured out how to mound the pile without causing mini avalanches later on. And then there was the blowback—just as one should never piss into the wind, the adage also applied to snow blowing.
Once she had cleared the path, Martinez knocked off as much snow as she could from the blower and the tread of the airless tires—a feature that guaranteed she would never have to check tire pressure or air them up at the gas station. No matter the day or time, there was always a ridiculous line to use the “free air” machine.
With the snow blower parked back in the garage, Martinez grabbed a self-fashioned scooper—a plastic gallon milk jug with the top cut off—and filled it full of course salt. She deposited a layer on the newly cleared concrete and asphalt, liberally hitting the walkways and wheel line on the sloped driveway. Salt was one thing she was never short of working at the Salt Mine—the covert black ops agency that monitored supernatural activity. Finally, she brushed the snow from her outerwear and clapped her gloved hands together before lowering the garage door and hanging everything in the mudroom once more.
Inside the kitchen, she poured herself a hot cup of coffee, warmed her hands on the mug, and bid good morning to the collection of snow figures in the backyard. It had started with a traditional three-tiered snowman, but after her third one, she’d decided to branch out. It was surprising therapeutic to sculpt snow, not unlike building sand castles. The stuff from last night would be perfect for construction—dry powder may be ideal of skiing, but it didn’t have enough moisture for the snow to stick together.
As she toyed with what to make next, an ebony cat entered the kitchen and announced her presence with a declarative meow. Martinez smiled behind her cup. “Hello, kitty.” The silky Egyptian Mau came closer, her sleek form obscured under her thick winter coat. The cat rubbed against Martinez’s leg, tilting her head ever so slightly. Martinez bent down and scratched the feline’s ears. The cat purred in delight. She allowed Martinez to pick her up and pet her, burrowing in the human’s warmth.
Just as Martinez had gotten Stigma out of her house, she had acquired a part-time pet, and the serendipity of the timing had not been lost on her. And Aaron was worried I would be lonely without him... she mused as she stroked the velvety coat.
Technically, the cat was Wilson’s, but she seemed to visit with some regularity and at her leisure. It hadn’t taken Martinez long to guess that the cat Wilson had brought to Thanksgiving was Mau, the mummified cat of legend that had been stolen last year. She had been retrieved and returned to Hor-Nebwy, the mummy power that reigned over the Valley of the Magi, but how Mau came to live with Wilson after that was beyond Martinez, and she knew better than to ask or speak of it.
She never knew when Mau might appear in her house and kept the cupboard stocked for her impromptu visits. The fact that the cat entered and left the house without anyone opening the door for her was further proof of Martinez’s suspicions—there was no place on earth Mau could not go. Still, she kept up the ruse that Mau was just a normal cat, albeit one that could turn ethereal to play with the little ghost girl that lived in the attic.
“Are you hungry?” Martinez asked the nestled ball of fur in her lap. Mau answered in the affirmative with an unambiguous meow. “Then you’re going to have to let me get up.”
A pair of piercing jade eyes emerged, upturned in slight indignation. Mau begrudgingly took to her feet and leapt to the floor. It seemed colder than before now that she had gotten warm. She bound for the rug before sitting on her haunches, expectantly waiting for the human to bring her food.
Martinez took the opportunity to reheat her own breakfast—oatmeal with honey, cranberries and slivered almonds—before grabbing a can from the pantry. She always had tuna, but sprung for fancy cat food with gravy when it was on sale. They even sold soup for cats now. She scooped the contents into a shallow dish that had become Mau’s bowl, a blue on white porcelain she had picked up at a garage sale on a lark.
The microwave dinged as she set the food on the floor, and Mau was face deep in her food by the time Martinez was back in her seat with hers. They breakfasted together in amicable silence until the sound of heavy metal scraping its way down her street broke the quaint, domestic scene. Martinez was grateful to drive on city-plowed and salted roads, but that didn’t stop her from grumbling each time she had to re-clear the small line of drift left in its wake on her driveway. “That’s my cue to get ready for work,” she said to the cat on her way to the sink with the dishes.
Mau, who was performing her postprandial grooming, looked up and gave a sympathetic meow to the Mountain, the name she had bestowed upon Martinez. Of all the things Mau had learned of Detroit since her arrival, the chill of winter was at the bottom of the list. Not even the tomb had been so cold.