No sign on the door, no speech to give. Out past Hudson Hill the streets bend around the contour lines and snow finds every one of them, sliding back down onto whatever was just cleared. Landscape company plows driveways and lots, clears walkways and stairs, and salts the grades so ice does not get a second chance. Nights like that are counted in passes, not hours. Morning comes, the pavement is bare, and there is nothing much to say about it.