Snow light filled the cabin with a flat, museum brightness. Ray had cleared a higher patch of the window by scraping, and through it they could see the ghost shapes of pines bent under white, and beyond them nothing that resembled a road.
"Tell me about the editor," Ray said suddenly, stirring cinnamon into his oatmeal until the grey turned faintly brown and smelled like a kitchen in a different life. "The one who was supposed to get the compass."
Ellen set down her spoon. The question was soft, not prying—curious in the way of someone who had spent a night listening to another person's silence and now wanted the words that silence had been holding.