The windows are covered in ice. It is the last thing on my mind, as I head out the door at three o'clock to finally grab something to eat. I make my way across the snow-covered parking lot, trying not to slip and telling the little baby in my stomach that I am being careful. I promised work that I would be back in a minute, but now I am sitting in my car with heat blasting unwilling to move. It is the first time I have sat down all day, and I press my back against the worn seat trying to find relief. Blankly shoving overcooked french fries in my mouth, the only thing I think about is how brown and shriveled they are. I wonder if the fast-food drive thru person realized that I am pregnant and this is all I can afford to eat . The radio station switches songs, and suddenly Sweet Caroline is flooding out of the speakers. My heart stops for a second to consider the cosmic coincidence. I watch as continents of ice drift down over the windshield and break into countries. There are customers mindlessly wandering through the store groping through bins of old shower gels like there might be a prize at the bottom. There is an employee waiting to talk my ear off in a plastic high-pitched voice while she starts ten projects and never finishes one. There is a voicemail on my phone from my mother wanting to discuss my little brother's jail sentence and how the prozac is working for her. There is a heated argument with my husband at home as we sort through boxes half-heartedly. The ice country looks a bit like France and Italy put together. My back is almost not hurting. Eleven more minutes of cosmic music and stale french fries before I have to go back.