Chapter 5: Warm Socks

It was snowing sideways when I came out of the arrivals hall.

The airport doors slid open, and the cold went straight through my jacket and down my sleeves.

A tall woman stood by a mud-streaked white van with a cardboard sign in one hand.

It said, "QUILL" in thick black marker.

Her braid was pale blonde, her cheeks were wind-red and she had a parka that had seen things.

"You are Emmett," she said.

"Yes."

"You have no hat."

"I have a hat in the bag."

"Then you have no hat on your head." She pulled a wool one out of her pocket and handed it over.

It was warm from her body.

"I'm Sunna. I drive, I find the locations, and I tell people when they are standing somewhere stupid."

"Nice to meet you."

"We will see." She took my camera case from me without asking and slung it into the back.

The van smelled like coffee and wet dog.

The heater roared.

We drove an hour into the white, down a road the plows had cut through the lava fields, and she didn't try to make conversation.

I was grateful.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, once, then again.

I looked at it.

Seven messages from Cecelia.

I put it face down on my knee.

"Problems?" Sunna asked, eyes on the road.

"An ex."

"Mm." She turned the wipers up a notch. "Then we shoot something and you do not think about her."

"That's the plan."

"Good plan. Boring, but good."

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