Three in the morning, snow blowing sideways off the Garret Mountain ridge, and the plow lights are the only thing moving on the block. A.L.C.Contracting.L.L.C works Paterson's storm nights: pushing driveways open, cutting walkways, shoveling the steps and stoops no blade can reach, then laying salt behind it so the melt doesn't turn to glass by six. Basalt cliff on one side, the river valley on the other — wind funnels between them and the drifts pile wherever they like. The whole night gets measured in small things: a car that backs out without a shove, a mail carrier who never has to think about her footing. When the sky finally goes gray over the Passaic, the pavement is black and wet and the day can start on time.