Sheriff Bill Wilkins popped an antacid and ground it between his teeth as the reporter fumbled with his tape recorder. It was late on the evening of December 15, and outside, fat flakes of snow fell lazily from the black sky, adding to the six inches from the previous night. When Bill last peeked out, Main Street stood empty, the traffic lights at the corner of Main and Oak swaying in the wind. If the weatherman was right, there would be a foot on the ground come morning. Bill's stomach gurgled. "Are you ready, Mr. Katz?" he asked impatiently. The reporter looked nervously up. "Y-yeah, I'm ready." Bill sat back in his chair and sighed. "That thing's on, right?" "Yeah," the reporter said. Bill sighed. He ran over the story once more in his mind, gathering the steam needed to tell it. "Well, it started Tuesday," he began. "I was here, in my office, drinking a cup of coffee and reading over the reports from the night before." That wasn't entirely true. He was drinking coffee, alright, but he was actually surfing the internet, looking up discount rooms on Hotels.com; a long week in Florida sounded good about now.
