It's early. The sun is barely clearing the eastern ridge.
Augie Knapp stands under the leafless oak in the Warnkes' backyard. There's still snow on the ground, but he's wearing an undershirt and cutoffs, like it's the middle of July.
On his left hand is a flesh-colored glove. The other hand is bare.
"Kyle? You awake yet?"
Like anyone could sleep through Augie's frogular croak. "Kyle! Come look!"
Finally, a light goes on upstairs.
The window flies open. A head leans out. "What the heck are you doing, Augie?"
"Freezing my buns off." Augie laughs. "What's it look like I'm...