The sun set at 4:17 that day. I know because I watched it go from the driver's seat of my van, keys still in the ignition, doors locked.
I'd left the engine running to keep the heater on. Brilliant move for a locksmith.
I had my work gloves on, worn through at the thumb from a thousand deadbolts. But no Slim Jim because I'd loaned it to the kid at the garage.
The last daylight slipped behind the paper mill stacks. River went gray. Temperature dropped fast.
Then a pickup pulled up. Dave got out. We'd been teammates on the varsity line, third string, both of us. He still had that same sideways grin.
He didn't say a word, just handed me a coat hanger from his truck bed. I had the door open in forty seconds.
We stood there in the dark, breath fogging. He said, 'You still owe me a beer from '93.'
That was the winter we lost the championship by three points. I'd been carrying that loss like it meant something.
The shortest day taught me this: you don't need the right tools. You need someone who remembers you from before you were stuck.