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Red, orange and gold trickled from an oak. Frost crept into the breeze. A man pushes his truck into a quiet town off Route 37. The service station closed at six. A sleepy hollow black dyes the air. The traveler stares at the evil eye protruding from the sky. "Full moon," he whispers. His legs throbbing, he slams the door of the truck. The air sticks its frosty fingers down his plaid shirt.

Leaves crinkle under his steel-toe boots. He winces with each step. Stopping, he listens to his heart thump. In the silence, a warm sound melts a wisp of frost just enough for his ear to catch a melody. His calloused fists unwind. An arctic gust catches his sweaty palms. His fingers recoil.

At the crossroads, a soft light reflects off the cement. He follows the glow. Peering into the window he reads, "Metropolis Coffee." His wary toes edge past the threshold. Warm maple flooring reinforces the steel in his toes and he walks up to the bar.

"Drinks are on the house tonight," a tattooed arm hands him a latte. The man sinks into a leather chair and lugs his boot onto his left knee. He sticks his thick finger into the latte and mixes the rosseta into the espresso...(to be continued, possibly).