The young woman answered the door. She was in her mid-twenties. She wore sweat pants and a long sleeve shirt. The night wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm either. If Nebraska were a youth dance, Spring would be asking Winter to go with him. It would be over the phone, not in person. And only after delivering a picture of Winter that took Spring like three hours to finish the shading on her upper lip. Winter said yes after her mother, Fall, forced her. “You are GOING with that boy.” She hasn’t ditched Spring to dance with her ice-queen friends yet, but it’s only March 8. Anyway, I handed over the pizza. She handed me back the clipboard. It was time to go. I began to turn away. With honesty and sincere sentiment, I said, “Enjoy your pizza!” “You, too!” she said as she shut the door. Me, too? Me, too, what? Me, too, enjoy the pizza? What pizza? There is no pizza. What pizza would I enjoy in this situation? Mmmmm, pizza. Thus was the conversation in my head as I walked away. This happen...