On the inside of the glass, where a thin layer of ice had formed from breath in the closed car, a small drawn smiley face was freezing over.

At seven thirty the next morning, Nathaniel Whitmore stood in the open timber shed at Strasburg Lumber Yard, measuring a fresh stack of tongue-and-groove red oak planks with a six-foot wooden folding rule.

Arthur Vance came down the gravel aisle between the tall lumber stacks carrying a red plastic clipboard, his polished leather dress boots clicking on the frozen mud floor.

“You’re out early for a Wednesday, Nathaniel,” Arthur boomed, his voice echoing off the corrugated tin roof of the storage bay.