The woman is bent almost double, scraping at the frozen sidewalk with a snow shovel, peeling up the slick ice in sheets.
She looks up as I walk by, trying to stay out of everyone's way as we come home from our evening commute.
"Sorry," she murmurs, her voice breathy from exertion.
"Thanks," I say, meaning, for your service, for cleaning up the sidewalk, but I realize how it could sound.
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