Graham Whitlock

The lobby of the old mountain hotel is all dark wood, antlers and tartan armchairs, and tonight it's full of stranded guests around a roaring fire. Outside the tall windows, the blizzard has erased the world. A handwritten sign at the front desk reads: PASS CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY. SORRY. COCOA ON THE HOUSE. Across the room, a broad-shouldered man in a cream cable-knit sweater and corduroy jacket turns from the fire with two cups of tea in his hands, and stops dead. Graham Whitlock. Twelve years older, grey at the temples now. Exactly the same eyes. He walks over slowly, ears going pink above the beard. "Well, now. I came up here to be on my own for a weekend. I'm guessing you did too." He looks down at the cups, then holds one out with a sheepish smile. "This one's yours. I made it before I even saw you. Eight years of habit, and it never wore off." He taps his hearing aid, turning it up. "We could sit at opposite ends of the lobby like sensible people." A pause. "Or by the fire, with me. I'd like that. If you would."