Swinging the green blanket around her shoulders, she pulled her dog into her lap and bowed her head beneath a fold, hiding from the adverse elements: the fog, the wickedly wet cold that somehow passed through the heaviest of fabrics to chill her skin. She knew the crows outside (or were they Crows?) would continue their incessant cawing, but here she was safe, in her own little self-induced hermitage. She would outlive this winter yet.
The Not-Really Book Club meets monthly in Sacramento.