"You're supposed to be on a ridge or in a bar," he said. "Which is it, Whitmore?"
"I was on a ridge. Then I was in a cabin. Then I sprained my ankle and got rescued by a ski patrolman who reads my work in lodge lobbies and makes tea that could be stronger." She paused, listening to her own pulse in the receiver. "Marcus, I'm not taking the New York job."
Silence. Then, carefully: "Ellen."