The red hand flickered, interrupted by flurries of snow.  Margaret Yasgar waited there, her body shifted to one side, weight on the cane.  It had been a while since she’d been out; a while since she’d walked past the old coffee shop near Monroe’s.  The city shifted around her with sounds muffled by the blanket of snow.  The light seemed to take hours to change, as it always does when one is alone.  Margaret recalled the last time she stood there with her son a few years back.  She thought of the time before the last time, when she stood beside the man with his eyes, his thin nose.  The last time she stood there in the snow.  

The light changed faster then, of course.