Fred Raymond traveled the instant replay of his life and felt puzzled.

He walked over to the window of the small repair shop where he wasted away and reflected on his industrial surroundings. He had always loved backward Philadelphia with its wasteful, wide-eyed waters. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel puzzled.

Tonight was like any other night, he was working on a few cars for customers who likely wouldn't pay him. No, what was different tonight, was the blinding blizzard. The snow was so heavy, you couldn't see more than ten feet in front of you.

One of Fred's little freedoms was menthol cigarettes. The thing was, his boss, hated when he smoked in the shop, and he told his mom he quit. Fred's father had died of smoking the dam things. His mother couldn't bear to know he was still smoking them. He had a plan for his boss, he had no plan for his mom. Opening up the bay door, he would breathe in his death there, to avoid the tongue lashing from his boss. He might freeze his ass off, but he would be smoking.

Grabbing the key from his boss's desk, another transgression he would commit for his smoke. He shuffled down the flight of stairs, unlocked the padlock to the door, and rolled up the door, exposing himself to the...