Over the next three weeks, four customers came. Each praised the chicken as the best they had ever eaten, but four sales could not cover rent or utilities. The unpaid bills rose.
On December 23, under a heavy sky, forecasts warned that Detroit faced its worst snowstorm in two decades. Williams stirred a pot of chicken and dumplings, grateful she had managed to buy supplies in bulk—paid for by those few sales—in hopes of a Christmas rush that never arrived. “Mama cold,” Marcus said, rubbing his hands. She turned up the stove and added another blanket. By night, wind and snow erased the street; even the few cars that normally passed had disappeared.
On Christmas Eve morning, the house felt like a freezer. Her breath fogged, and Marcus shivered despite layers of blankets. A thermostat error flashed; calls to the heating service reached only an automated message: non-emergency repairs would wait until the storm ended, and even emergency calls faced a 72-hour delay. Panic rose as Marcus began a thin, wailing cry. Then the power went out. Williams lit candles and moved into the small kitchen to conserve warmth. The gas stove still worked, so she kept water boiling for steam and cracked the oven to draw heat from the pilot light. She told Marcus they would be all right; at least there was food on the shelves—canned goods, beans, rice flour, and seasonings—enough for several days if rationed carefully.
By the second day, the cold was punishing. She wrapped herself and Marcus in every blanket and coat she could find, rationed the remaining candles, and worried as a slight cough set in. Snow piled against the windows, dimming what little daylight remained.
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