A light dusting of snow, freshly fallen, lay across the landscape outside John Morales’ window like an accent. It highlighted the objects it covered, their edges and protrusions became more visible, tinged as they were with a stark white.
Sindamo consciously willed his hands not to shake as he set the pan down on the counter. The man with the dress shirt asked, “Business good today, Mr. Sindamo?” After trying with limited success to wet his suddenly parched throat by swallowing, Sindamo croaked, “Yes, sir. May I help you?”