She took a little sip and handed it back to me.

The steam rose white into the cold morning air.

We turned and walked up the gravel slope together toward the tackle shed.

The path was wet and covered in brown oak leaves that crunched under our winter boots.

The heavy iron latch on the shed door was cold when I reached out and touched it.

The extra padlock Dean had added two years ago hung crooked from the steel staple.

I took a pair of heavy wire cutters out of my canvas tote and set the notched jaws against the shackle.