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The woman made her way slowly up the avenue, mindful of the ice beneath the snow. The storm had grown stronger through the day, the wind more potent, the cold deeper than any she could recall. It tore through her, distracting her from the prospect she faced.
The young man she was to meet, to open negotiations with, was surely combed and washed by now, perhaps wearing a jacket with a school insignia as he sat with his father in the living room, awaiting her arrival.
After what seemed hours, the woman gained the lobby of the apartment building on New York's Lexington Avenue, and sank down onto a sofa by the elevator to regain her strength.
"He's outside," the father said, when the woman arrived upstairs. "He's on the terrace."
"He's where?" the woman said.
"He has a basketball hoop out there. He plays basketball while he listens to basketball on the radio."
"I don't understand," the woman said.
"See him out there through the window?"
"What's wrong with his hands?"