Morning arrived as a gradual greying of the white outside, not as sunrise. There was no disk of sun, only a slow admission of light into the storm's leftovers. Ellen woke to the smell of coffee—real coffee, somehow, boiled in a pot on the stove until it was strong enough to argue with sleep—and to Ray moving carefully so as not to jostle the chairs or her ankle. He had washed his face with heated water from the kettle and looked slightly more like a man who might someday leave the mountain for a grocery store without calculating escape routes, slightly less like a fixture of rock and season.
"Roads still closed," he said, nodding at the radio when he saw her eyes open. "Base says maybe by noon. Maybe not. Plows are working the lower stretches. Mid-mountain is still a rumor."
"Then we have breakfast," Ellen said, voice rough with sleep. "What does the mountain's cabin offer on Christmas morning?"