You look behind you and pull in to the left, behind a red parked volvo. You wish you’d worn mittens. They’re in your coat pocket. Why didn’t you wear them? You lower your fingers to your right jeans pocket to pull out your phone. Your hand is limp and immobile, like a medical glove filled with sand, attached to your sleeve by a string. You bash your appendage against your leg as you try to enter the pocket, to little avail, like one of those grabber arms at the arcade that no one ever wins on. You try again. Bingo. You force your ornamental fingers deep. The heat from your leg begins to tickle your palms and bring them back to life. You hold them there for five seconds or so, until the tiniest amount of control returns to your extremities, and you pull your arm up again and back down so that now the phone is between your hand and your leg, and then you pull it out with your phone in tow, unlock your screen with your nose, and check Google Maps.