I was on the trail of a woman and her kid.

All clues pointed to them being holed up in Madawaska, Maine—a town located at the northern tip of Maine. I was on I-95 northbound, making good time and expecting to arrive by mid-afternoon. But all that changed when the sky darkened, taking the sun with it, and snowflakes began falling aimlessly. Light and delicate at first, but their ferocity grew, bringing with them a fierce wind that howled and barked like hungry wolves out on the open prairie and slowed my progress to a crawl.

The wiper blades on my late-model red two-door Ford pickup squeaked and rattled as they streaked across the windshield, moving the fat, heavy snowflakes from side to side, giving me only seconds of visibility. The heater was set to high-plus, blasting all the hot air onto the windshield, trying, but to no avail, from fogging over, but it was doing a fine job of burning and drying my eyes.

Around ten that night, my headlights illuminated the snow-encrusted green sign welcoming me to Madawaska. I had driven straight through from the Massachusetts border, stopping only twice to get gas. Hungry, exhausted, and wanting a hot meal, I took the first exit off the highway, turned left, and in no time found Main Street. The stores were all decked out with snow-covered wreaths and a dazzling display of red and green Christmas lights that shimmered like icicles. But all the storefronts and restaurants were locked tighter than a bull rider’s grip. In a way, I didn’t blame them; it was Christmas Eve.

It didn’t matter that it was Christmas. I was focused on the job. I needed to find the pair before they crossed into Canada and disappeared, taking my chance for the pot of gold with them.

The radio was on, and the cab filled with the smooth sound of a clarinet releasing the musical notes to “Silver Bells.” The station was WDRC out of Vermont, and I had gotten used to the buttery, sultry voice of the DJ, who went by the name of Gracie Rose. She had the seven PM to the four AM time slot. Her words flowed, drawing me into her world and keeping me interested. I imagined her to have the heavy-lidded eyes and the sexy glance of the legendary actress Lauren Bacall. She was playing non-stop Christmas music and sharing her thoughts on what Christmas was all about. After the song ended, Gracie reminded her listeners that it was never too late, nor did it matter how old we were; we needed to “Believe, and that’s when miracles happened.”

I do not know what made me do it, but I yelled, “I Believe.” And at that moment, I saw what I initially thought was a mirage. Between the gust of wind and the swirling snow, larger than life, was a lit-up blue and white sign of a 24-hour diner—The Jukebox— and they were open. The stainless-steel exterior was encased in a cocoon of snow with sparkling icicles dangling from its roof. Through its windows, the glow of lights was inviting me inside to a warm meal.

The unplowed parking lot was empty except for two cars wrapped in a blanket of snow. When I pulled in, the Ford’s back tires fishtailed, swaying the truck from side to side until the chains on the tires caught. Then, I took a prime spot close to the glass doors.

My gray leather cowboy boots sank into the deep snow as I exited the truck and remembered that I’d never waterproofed them, ruining them. Fearing that my Stetson would blow across the street, I held it against my chest as snow and ice pellets battered my face. Trying to escape the storm, I moved toward the restaurant with the grace of a three-legged old hound dog. I shook my head, wondering why me—a boy born and raised in Laredo, Texas—would take this job chasing this woman to this frozen icebox.

A gust of chilled air followed me inside as I dusted the snow off my leather jacket and, when removing the Stetson, sent a flurry of snow onto the wet floor. My fingers brushed the snow off my gray hair. The aroma of dark coffee, bacon, and toast were as welcoming as a wife you haven’t seen in a long time.

Greeting me was a waitress wearing a whimsical elf’s headdress who stood by the lunch counter next to a small Christmas tree decked out in tinsel, red balls, and white lights. The Jukebox was playing “All I Want for Christmas.” She smiled and told me to sit wherever I wanted. Passing her, I ordered a tall, hot cup of black coffee. I caught the man sitting at the counter, giving me a quick, suspicious glimpse. I tipped my hat as if to tell him that I was friendly.