The storm had blown through last night, leaving a clear, bright morning behind. The wind, when she stepped out of the car, caught her with the shock of diving into cold water. She zipped her parka up to her chin-strategically covering her clerical collar-and pulled her knit cap low over her forehead. Maybe if she was nothing more than an anonymous figure in winter woolies she could escape without a harangue.

She clambered over a rock-hard lump of brown-and-gray snow that covered the curb and crunched up the salt-crusted sidewalk toward the historical society. She kept her head down and her hands jammed in her pockets to avoid having any pamphlets thrust on her.

Don’t notice me, don’t notice me, she chanted in her head, but as she was the only other person within two blocks of the clinic, it wasn’t surprising that her incantation didn’t work.

“Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?”

Clare lifted her eyes from the gritty walk. She couldn’t help it. A lifetime of conditioned politeness kicked in, and she pasted a pleasant expression on her face.

You know what your problem is, Fergusson? MSgt. Ashley “Hardball” Wright, her air force survival school instructor, had a tendency to leap into her thoughts at times like these. You need to have a face that says get outta my way or I’ll kill you and eat your heart! Do you know what your face says, Fergusson? It says I’m a widdle bunny rabbit! Are you going to be a combat pilot or a widdle bunny rabbit, Fergusson?

“Yes?” she said to the protestor. Sir, a widdle bunny rabbit, sir.

The woman looked more like a member of the PTA than a political activist. She had a hand-knit tam pulled over long, curly hair, a heavy-duty parka, and sensible snow boots. She carried her placard and a clipboard in Scandinavian-knit mittens. “Would you be willing to sign a petition asking the aldermen to remove the current head of the clinic?”