Inside 217

           AweekandahalflatertwofeetofsnowlaywhiteandcrispandevenonthegroundsoftheOverlookHotel.Thehedgemenageriewasburieduptoitshaunches;therabbit,frozenonitshindlegs,seemedtoberisingfromawhitepool.Someofthedriftswereoverfivefeetdeep.Thewindwasconstantlychangingthem,sculptingthemintosinuous,dunelikeshapes.TwiceJackhadsnowshoedclumsilyaroundtotheequipmentshedforhisshoveltocleartheporch,thethirdtimeheshrugged,simplyclearedapaththroughthetoweringdriftlyingagainstthedoor,andletDannyamusehimselfbysleddingtotherightandleftofthepath.ThetrulyheroicdriftslayagainsttheOverlook’swestside;someofthemtoweredtoaheightoftwentyfeet,andbeyondthemthegroundwasscouredbaretothegrassbytheconstantwindflow.Thefirst-floorwindowswerecovered,andtheviewfromthediningroomwhichJackhadsoadmiredonclosingdaywasnownomoreexcitingthanaviewofablankmoviescreen.Theirphonehadbeenoutforthelasteightdays,andtheCBradioinUllman’sofficewasnowtheironlycommunicationslinkwiththeoutsideworld.

           Itsnowedeverydaynow,sometimesonlybriefflurriesthatpowderedtheglitteringsnowcrust,sometimesforreal,thelowwhistleofthewindcrankinguptoawomanishshriekthatmadetheoldhotelrockandgroanalarminglyeveninitsdeepcradleofsnow.

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