Ice hung off the eaves of the carport like jagged dragon teeth in a preschooler's drawing of scary. Stiff and unresponsive to the wind that came rushing across the field and crying like a banshee, the ice-covered limbs of the sycamore tree could have been the dragon's claws, sharp and pointed and crooked at awkward angles. Standing in the doorway, huddled inside my overcoat, I would have welcomed a quick puff of the dragon's fire breath — just enough to break the chill until I could get into the car.