He sounded like a machine built to pull money out of people.

Nobody moved.

People shoved their gloved hands deeper into their pockets.

The temperature was hovering in the low teens.

The harsh north wind rattled the bare branches of the huge cottonwoods behind the house.

A loose piece of tin on the barn roof slapped against the wood.

I looked down at my right hand.

I was holding white bidding card number forty-seven.