She has traveled down empty highways in late afternoon and smiled; there is a sense of wonder in being the only person on the road at this time of year. On either side, snow-laced farmers' fields glow off-white; the surrounding trees outlined by a winter sun that hangs low behind the clouds. The sky is pink and orange; she is almost home, our Isadora. Gifts have arrived from overseas, wrapped in brown paper; tied with coarse white twine and addressed in thickly-stroked, black, permanent marker. Inside: great slabs of rich milk chocolate, sealed in royal purple wrapping foil; spiced tea; black licorice; stones of smooth, maple-coloured toffee in small card boxes. Appreciative mouths delight.