The custodian at St. Mark’s had just scraped three inches of snow o the sidewalks when the man with the cane appeared. The sun was up, but the winds were howling; the temperature was stuck at the freezing mark. The man wore only a pair of thin dungarees, a summer shirt, wel -worn hiking boots, and a light Windbreaker that stood lit le chance against the chil . But he did not appear to be uncomfortable, nor was he in a hurry.
He was on foot, walking with a limp and a slight tilt to his left, the side aided by the cane. He shu ed along the sidewalk near the chapel and stopped at a side door with the word “O ce” painted in dark red. He did not knock and the door was not locked. He stepped inside just as another gust of wind hit him in the back.
The room was a reception area with the clut ered, dusty look one would expect to nd in an old church. In the center was a desk with a nameplate that announced the presence of Charlot e Junger, who sat not far behind her name. She said with a smile, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” the man said. A pause. “It’s very cold out there.”
“It is indeed,” she said as she quickly sized him up. The obvious problem was that he had no coat and nothing on his hands or head.
