We were warriors once, of the Scottish variety, wrapped in tartan blankets with our faces painted blue. Our women were Playboy bunnies, bare skin bound in black Lycra, shivering in the frozen night.
The air was so cold that our breaths became crystals, suspended in front of our faces before shattering to the ground. State Street sat a long mile from our hotel, and the walk there was killing us. The shots we’d downed were not doing their job of cloaking our souls in liquid warmth.
“How many more blocks?” Shelly asked me as she wrapped her arms around her frail torso.
“Fifty,” I said.