He opened his eyes and looked at her again, and this time the look was different, slower, a man reading a sign he had driven past a thousand times as a boy.
"Lena," he said. "Lena Marchetti."
"Hello, Danny."
"You had a retainer," he said. "And that haircut. Your mother did it at the kitchen table with a mixing bowl."
"I was thirteen."
"You threw a wrench at me once."
"You deserved it. You called me Lena-the-Hyena in front of the whole street."
"I did," he said, with something like wonder. "God. I did." He reached back and dug a clump of snow out of his collar and looked at it and dropped it. "Well. You've got a better arm now."