The second hand crawls like a snail along the white dial. Five minutes to twelve. I take the keys out of the ignition and go outside. The cafe door is still closed. Above it is a dull green sign with black streaks, and purple letters in a primitive Northern Lights font. I turn my head, peering into a long field of uneven snow. I look around the back wash, which perched between the field and Yanina's cafe. Washing, along the way, has not been working for a long time. There are no signs. The gate is rusted. No traces of protectors on the uncleared driveway area. Only the letters drawn...