Still, there was nothing for them, the two of them or anybody else, nothing for them to do except go on, huddle together, wait for spring. She would do what she had to do.

She stepped toward him, his hands in the pockets of a long black coat, its black fur collar sparkling with snow. She could barely make out his face as he turned toward her, unknowing. He seemed… what? Sad? Nice? He seemed alone.

She felt ridiculous, with her cheap black wool clothes and her cheap gray cardboard suitcase. Just begin, she thought. Just move forward to say hello; the rest, somehow, will take care of itself.

“Mr. Truitt. I’m Catherine Land.”

“You’re not her. I have a photograph.”

“It’s of someone else. It’s my cousin India.”

He could feel the eyes of the townspeople watching them, the eyes taking it all in, this deception. It was too much to bear.

“You need a proper coat. This is the country.”

“It’s what I have. I’m sorry. The picture. I’m sorry, but I can explain.”

This deceit in front of the whole town, this being made a fool of, again, in front of everybody. His heart raced and his legs felt bloodless.

“We can’t stand here all night. Whoever you are. Give me your case.”

She handed it to him as he took his hand from his pocket. Briefly, she felt its warmth.

“This is all. This is everything?”

“I can explain. I don’t have much. I thought…”

“We can’t stand here in a blizzard, with everybody… we can’t stay here.” He looked at her without warmth or welcome. “This begins in a lie. I want you to know I know that.”

He took the picture from his pocket, her picture, and showed it to her, as though bringing it out from his pocket would somehow make her become the shy, homely woman caught there. She looked at it.