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now.”
    Derek gives a last look around, promising to bring traps from the store next time. Heading outside to his pickup truck, if nothing else, he’s glad for their own commotion over raccoons and dropped flashlights and bumping into each other and the momentary distraction of Vera.

Chapter Five
    MY LATEST NEIGHBORHOOD POLL INDICATES heavy nut-burying activity, more so in the eastern side of town. There’s still time to let me know what squirrel trends you’re seeing on our website because for all the weather technology we have, sometimes Mother Nature knows best. And so far, the squirrels are busy preparing for very cold months ahead.”
    Vera knows before she even turns around that her father is giving his annual Addison Almanac winter weather predictions. It’s the down-home, folksy stuff like this that makes him Addison’s favorite meteorologist celebrity. She tightens the sash on her blue fluffy bathrobe and pours a mug of hot coffee, all the while listening to his winter trivia on the countertop television set.
    “Just how cold will the winter be? By golly, pet your pooch to check. My dog Captain’s coat of fur has gotten so thick, it rivals a beaver’s, correlating nicely with recent squirrel behaviors. And that means only one thing: lots of cold, cold weather is on the way.”
    She glances at her home’s single pane windows and hopes her father is wrong. Cold air will seep right through the glass and keep her drafty all winter. But he’s never wrong. And if he’s busted out his snowflake tie, then she knows they’re all fated to a winter of white, too. She takes a peek at the TV screen, letting out an exasperated breath at the sight of the wide navy blue tie dotted with white snowflakes beneath his suit jacket.
    “Now here’s a secret I’ve kept since summer,” he continues. “For every foggy morning in August—”
    “There’ll be a snowy day in winter,” Vera finishes, smiling as she does. Every snow axiom, adage, proverb and saying is part of her stock vocabulary.
    “So we’re in for a doozy. Gas up the snow blowers, and if the wooly bear caterpillars are any indication, stock up on mittens and hats while you’re at it. Take a look at these viewer photos sent in.” Images of the brown and gold caterpillars fill her screen, some sitting on a leaf, some on extended hands. “Those narrow brown bands of fuzz in the middle mean a cold winter ahead. Which will be ideal for snow-watching. And by the way, you can snow-gaze all you like, but you won’t find two identical snowflakes, folks.”
    Images of past snowstorms fill the screen while her father continues with his snow-lore. “And here’s why. The exact shape of each and every flake is defined by its chance twists and turns and spins as it free-falls from the clouds to the earth. It starts as one shape, but changes dramatically during its fall because every movement it makes affects its symmetrical shape. And no one flake will duplicate another because no two snowflakes take the same, precise path.”
    Well now. Enough talk of predictions. Because Vera has her own gauges for predictions, and they’re not looking pretty. One gauge would be a nearly-empty checkbook. It forecasts a rough winter ahead just as well as the nut-burying squirrels do. If only she could stockpile her necessities to get through the coming months. There’s only one way to do that—with a job. So she shuts off the television, sets her coffee mug in the sink and puts on her favorite forest green sheath along with gold stud earrings and a big gold watch. Then, pressing a hand to her paned living room window to feel the temperature of the air leaking in, she decides on her brown leather bomber over it all and sets out for the Addison Weekly .
    “Anything. I’ll take anything,” she tells the editor there as he’s skimming her completed profile of Lauren Bradford and the barnwood art exhibit planned at Circa 1765.
    He looks up at her pacing in front of his desk.