Even in bleak winter Iris would smile. They had this thing they always said to each other when one was worried.

"We have Allie." She'd wait for him to say it too.

"We have Allie."

Then she'd say, "And you have me."

"You have me," he'd say.

"And I have you." She'd hold him. And she'd always say, "And God is with us." He did not say that part.

At the hilltop a man told him Tom Kelly had gone with four men to shovel Cochrane Street. The streetcar lines were buried in three feet of snow. If he hurried he might get an hour's work.

Tom gave him a shovel. Some men wore gloves. William did not. He laid down his sack. The wooden handle felt warm. The snow was heavy. Feet and carriages had packed it down. The gang worked. Businessmen and boys with snowballs looked at them. Everyone knew they had no other work.

When this was done he'd take the few pennies they gave him. He'd go to his own South Side Hill. Out of this place, to where he belonged.