"No," the other man answers calmly, turning again to pick up brush and pan. "That sounds more like you."

Crouching down to the floor, he begins to sweep in long, easy strokes. As clean as the room is, there's no helping a surface people walk on; his brush leaves a gleaming, snaky wake behind it, and there, and there again. The room is much, much warmer now - and what he's sweeping into his dustpan is snowflakes.