The parking lot feels like another world. Snow falls past the headlight beams, the flakes from the blizzard swirling and curving every direction but down. I grow dizzy just trying to stay upright. I have to slow my steps so as not to fall. I see the old man. He is standing next to the open passenger door of an ancient farm truck, the engine still running. The big diesel grows louder as I approach, the ktunk-ktunk-ktunk unmuffled by the falling snow. As I near, the man takes a step back and signals frantically for me to hurry.
