The conversation’s over.”

He shoved the double doors open, letting the icy night wind sweep across the linoleum before the heavy glass swung shut behind him.

Three high-pressure sodium lamps lit the gravel parking lot, throwing an orange glare over the patches of ice.

I pulled my wool scarf tight around my neck and walked past four new pickups toward my twelve-year-old Buick LeSabre.

Ben was standing by his dark blue Ford truck near the chain-link fence, holding a wooden crate full of old basketball nets.