The Dead of Winter

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Mary Gallagher was cold. She was drifting in and out of sleep on a concrete ledge beside the entrance to a parking garage, the fitful half-sleep that was all she had known for years. She had stuffed newspapers next to her skin under layers of clothing to ward off the cold, and her wool toque was pulled down low over her face. Cocooned in a sleeping bag she got from the Salvation Army three weeks before, and with only her mouth exposed to the damp night, she still shivered.

She sensed the approaching figure before he arrived. The concrete ledge was almost six feet off the ground, and his face was level with hers. He reached up and gently pulled the toque back from her eyes and, so tightly was she wrapped, she couldn’t resist even if she had wanted to. She didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed in black like a priest, and that gave her a sense of comfort.

“Mary,” he said. “Wake up. They asked me to come and get you. We’ve found a safe place for you. But you must come with me now.”

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