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“She’s his girlfriend,” Jake pipes up.

I cough, practically spitting my coffee across the room. Says nothing for hours, and now he’s full of words.

“Uh, no. Not his girlfriend. His mom hired me to work for his tour company a couple of months ago. I’m from New York.”

“Oh my gosh. New York? That must be incredible. Have you been to…” And she’s off again, with a hundred questions but no need for any answers.

Jake sits in the corner, back on his phone, ignoring us.

When Nick finally shows up, the dregs of my coffee are stone cold. The door opens, a bitter chill seeping in, and he and Damon shake the ice from their jackets.

He mouths Sorry when he sees the agitated expression on my face.

Behind him, through the window, the road is gone. The building across from it is gone. There’s a blob out there that might be a truck.

“Ice fog rolled in,” he says. “We could be here a while. Maybe overnight.”

“Where are we going to stay?” I doubt there’s a Best Western.

“My dad kept a cabin. We’ll be fine there until it blows through.”

“There’s extra wood around the side.” Damon holds the door for us. “Go on before it gets worse.”

We leave Damon behind with Shelley and Jake and step out into an evening so brutal it feels like the Arctic Circle has descended a few hundred miles. I can barely see the ground I’m walking on. Ice forms along my lashes, and I shudder as the dead cold sinks into my bones. Nick keeps me pressed close to his side, and I let him. I walk blind through the fog, and it’s all I can do to keep up with his confident steps. A small cabin made from thick round logs emerges from the haze. He leaves me by the door while he fishes a key from under a rock by the step.

Nick hangs his jacket on a hook next to a beat-up trucker hat covered in cobwebs. A fireplace built from river stones takes up most of one side. An L-shaped counter is tucked into the corner with open shelving underneath hung with curtains made of the same fabric as Shelley’s tablecloths. No oven or fridge. Not much in the way of furniture other than a table with two chairs and a double bed against the farthest wall.

Nick finds some oil lamps and gets the fire going. I sink down on the floor in front of it so I don’t have to look at the bed.

The bed I’ll have to share with Nick.

Thinking about lying next to him all night, a few inches between us under the same blanket, makes me itchy.

For now, I’m going to ignore it. This bed is a problem for future me. Godspeed, future Ellery.

“You like chicken soup?” He’s rustling through the shelves.

“Sure, sounds good.”

He returns to the fire and crouches down to set a pot on a hook above the flames, and nestles a cast-iron kettle in the embers. He’s up again, moving about like he’s as nervous as I am. I hold my fingers out to the flames until they sting and Nick lays a thick quilt over my shoulders. The kettle boils, steam mixing with woodsmoke, and he pours me a cup of something cranberry red that smells crisp and fruity. Then he sits on the floor at my side, arms draped around his knees, without pouring one for himself.

“What did you mean before when you told Damon you’ve neglected your duties?” The phrase has stuck with me all afternoon.

He doesn’t answer straight away, and I wonder if I’ve asked more than I meant to.

“Dad was a leader in the borough, and that responsibility fell to me. I haven’t been living up to it very well.”

I turn the cup around in my hands. “Seemed like he was a lot more than that to many people.”

He stays quiet.

“I read his obituary.” The confession spills out. “Front page. Four columns. They called him a fixture.”

A log shifts and drops in the grate.

He doesn’t ask why I was reading his father’s obituary.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re failing. You do a good job taking care of everyone.” I twist the blanket into a knot. “Except maybe yourself.”