I watched this young man alternate between scribbling in a journal and cutting his steak in an odd little rhythm, in time (I'm supposing) to the music playing on his headphones. Seated at the rustic wooden bar surrounded by snowdrifts, he seemed appropriate in his hat, scarf, and fingerless gloves. I shivered, rubbed my hands for warmth, and ordered a hot toddy; for a moment, I believed myself to be in a drafty little tavern somewhere near the North Pole.

North Pole? I beg your pardon, sir. This was Harbison, still 60 degrees outside well after sunset. And that snow wasn't real; it was part of the holiday motif.

Daniel, however, was as genuine as they come. We chatted briefly, I reluctant to interrupt his solitude, he politely assuring me that he didn't mind at all. He offered that he was listening to music, reading his Bible, "and trying to figure some things out." No mention, though, of how the fingerless gloves figured in.


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