"I figured there was a clock on this," Ray said. He hung the parka and rubbed his hands before the stove until the color returned. "There's always a clock. Even up here. Shifts. Seasons. The day the road opens and the story ends."
"There is always a clock. That's the trouble with my profession. Even the beautiful parts come with departure times printed on the itinerary in a font that doesn't apologize."
Ray turned from the stove. Firelight found the silver in his hair. "You could miss it."