A Circle Melted in the Frost

Your thumb is warm. It is the warmest thing for four blocks.

A circle clears. Meltwater runs down the card and over your wrist, and you let it. Under the ice the ink is blue and patient.

The words come through slowly, a word for every minute.

Come to the light on the point. The door is never locked, only stuck. I am writing this where you are not yet. It will be cold when you read it. That's all right.

It is signed M.

You write down the word THAW. You do not know why.

Outside the chute, the lot lights flicker once, then twice, then once. Someone counting.