Chapter 11: Cold Hands

Saturday morning, the road up to the glacier was lined with ice.

Sunna drove the van slowly, with both hands on the wheel, and the tires ticked on frozen gravel.

Beyond the windshield, the snow-covered mountain stood against a pale, clear sky.

"It is the best light of the week," she said. "That is a waste. You will spend it on her."

"Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes is a long time to be cold."

She parked at the lookout, a flat shelf of rock with a railing and a blue information sign.

The lot was empty.

We got out, and the wind slapped the doors out of our hands.

I had forgotten my gloves.

I knew it the moment I stood up, and my hands began to ache.

By the time I had walked to the railing, my fingers were white.

Sunna came up beside me and looked down at them.

"You have no gloves," she said.

"I left them on the bed."

"You are a grown man."

"I know."

"Give me your hands."

"Sunna, it's fine."

"Emmett."

I gave her my hands.

She took both of them between hers and pulled off her mitten with her teeth to feel the skin.

Her palms were rough and very hot.

She wrapped her fingers around mine and held them against her coat.

"This is stupid," she said. "You are an idiot."

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