SHE’S GOT A TICKET TO RIDE November 1991 CHAPTER I The first snow is tight in the air the way deliberate words begin in the back of your throat--heavy cold, imbued with meaning: my window must be open, even in November; clean air now circulates through the acrid, oily odors of my work. My day is easy, very direct, little risk of danger. The stone wheel turns, my hands at one with the moment. I've carved out my corner of freedom, this in spite of the outside forces that conspire in far off places I can only touch from behind my heart, where doubt lifts on murmurs of hope.