Everything that falls on Greenville in January started over Lake Michigan, sixty miles west. Great Lakes Works meets it at night — blade down on the drive, banks pushed back where they belong, walkways opened, salt on the ice that forms in the tire tracks. Storms here rarely come in one clean piece; they come in waves, so the trucks come back. A drive that was buried at midnight is bare by the time the school bus makes its turn. That is the whole job, and it is enough.