There's always a truck in a subdivision that everybody on the block just knows, the one that shows up before most people are out of bed, does the corner house, the one with the long driveway, the one whose owner's out of town, without anybody having to ask twice. In a lot of Overland Park neighborhoods that truck belongs to Those Guys, and by late afternoon, when the light's gone thin and gold through bare branches and the day's plowing is winding down, it's usually still out making one more pass on a street it already finished once. Familiarity does something a stranger's truck can't, knowing which mailbox leans, which driveway floods before it freezes, which house has the dog that barks at the plow every single time. It's a casual kind of reliability, built one winter at a time on the same streets, until a name almost isn't necessary because everyone already knows who's coming. By the time the sun's fully down, the block is clear, and the truck's already three streets over doing it again.