[No stars] Conventionally grim. The morning was the midday was the afternoon, flat gray and cold. The lone point of interest was the possibility and prediction that all the heavy gray overhead was loading up for a flourish of show. The scarf was unwrapped from the neck of a coat hanger; the new glove liners that had been kicking around the vestibule came out of their wrapper and went into the coat pockets—not onto the hands. It was important to pace the preparations, to keep some things in reserve for when the real stuff hit. So the gloves and the liners, and even the hat, were tucked away, ready. And ready they stayed. Night fell: still no snow. Dinner was cleared away: no snow. Bedtime: not even a flake anywhere down in the streetlights. An unequivocal failure.