At three in the morning, Dequindre Road belongs to the plows. Hazel Park sits flat as a tabletop between Eight Mile and the I-696 trench, which means a clipper coming down out of Canada has nothing to slow it before it reaches these narrow blocks and their short, tight driveways. This is snow work on a clock that does not care what hour it is: driveways opened, walks taken down to the concrete, salt laid before the afternoon melt refreezes into glass. The reward arrives later, around six-thirty, when a car backs out of an alley-side garage onto black pavement without its driver giving it a second thought. That is the entire point of the night.