Page 16 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

I recover my breath over the sound of the last beans clattering off the counter. “You scared the crap out of me. I was talking to you in the other room this whole time.”

“Did I answer?” His lips press together in amusement, and I’m certain he’s never met anyone he finds more ridiculous.

I scoop the smashed beans off the floor and into the trash. “What were you doing outside?”

“Looking for Sam’s car. Did you move it last night?” His question sounds suspiciously like an accusation.

“I don’t have the keys. It should be in his spot in the underground lot.”

“I moved it to the street so you’d have a place to park.” He seems annoyed that solving this mystery requires so much conversing with me.

“I take the train.”

“What train? Do you mean that streetcar thing? Do people use that? It stops like every block,” he says, apparently more baffled by this development than by the missing car.

“It’s more of a tram. Did you move the car back last night?” I ask, already pulling out my phone to check my alerts. “Yep. There was a snow emergency.”

He stares at me blankly.

“You can’t park on the street during a snow emergency. The city tows your car, and it’s like a three-hundred-dollar ticket.”

“I know what a snow emergency is. It’s just…but it didn’t snow,” he argues, either with me or the City of Minneapolis or possibly weather in general.

“It was supposed to snow, so they called a snow emergency. It probably got towed.” I show him my text alerts.

“But it didn’t snow.” His brow furrows and frustration stiffens his shoulders.

“I’ll look up which impound lot it went to.”

“But it didn’t snow!” he growls.

His hand grazes mine on its way to Sam’s key fob on the kitchen island. The tiny flutter in my stomach at this skin-to-skin contact catches me by surprise.

“Welcome to the ruthless world of overnight street parking in Minneapolis,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket.

•••

We’re not the only ones burned by the fickle Minnesota weather. Adam commiserates with at least a dozen other unlucky souls. “But it didn’t even snow!” they exchange over and over in the cold echo chamber of the temporary impound lot.

The Cities are so vigilant about keeping streets cleared on plow routes that getting towed is practically a rite of passage. If Adam had a sense of humor, I’d offer to buy him a cupcake to commemorate the event.

All signs point to Adam not having a sense of humor, least of all about our current predicament.

Unlike impound facilities serviced by permanent structures with floors, walls, and a working HVAC system, Sam’s car was brought to an overflow lot created for the winter towing season, which means we’re standing in an open field where the city hosts community carnivals in the summer. The moment the temperature drops below freezing, it transforms into the seventh circle of hell, if hell were miserably cold.

Last night’s icy rain has turned the patch of dirt in front of the canopy-covered counter into slippery, squishy mud. We shuffle forward in silence with the slow-moving, disgruntled clump, our only sign of progress our increasing proximity to the propane heater pushing dry, tepid gusts our way.

“Are your feet okay?” Adam asks.

His question catches me off guard. “What?”

“Are your shoes holding up in the mud? You’re not cold?” His eyes scan my boots for deficiencies.

Adam’s thick work boots were made for these conditions. My ankle boots—already caked in mud—are barely managing to keep my toes dry.

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Good.” He offers me a curt nod. If his words were an attempt at compassion, no one told his face.

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