Chapter 3About three months after the suicides, in the heart of a Canadian January winter, the kind that made me long for Tahiti or Hawaii or someplace with fruity drinks, a man came in from the cold. He was tall and lanky, but young in his face and hands. Almost no wrinkles and good skin. He smiled at me as he shook off the snow from the shoulders of his coat.
“How can I help you this evening?” I asked. It wasn’t quite yet eleven, so I still felt chipper. “We have some hot cocoa from a machine down the hall, if you’d like to warm yourself before checking in.”
The man shrugged in an over-exaggerated manner. Then he grasped his ears and shook his head. I thought he meant he was cold, and wanted earmuffs or had lost his pair, so I gestured down the hall where the cocoa was. He shook his he
