We leave BTI and head into the frigid wind of another cold and dark winter evening. The weather is harsh here, near-constant wind, snow, rain, clouds, and fog. It’s not for delicate flowers. But even those of us seasoned by the climate can still feel the cold deep in our bones, especially on an evening like this when we’re outside instead of staying in.

Ruth and Harriet flank me on either side. Ruth has on her winter coat, which falls to her ankles, inhibiting her from taking full strides so that she ends up walking in small, stuttering steps. It’s comical, but I try not to laugh. She wears a yellow winter hat pulled low and under a fur-lined hood, and her scarf is wrapped twice around her face so that all I can see are the wedges of her eyes peeking through the layers. She grumbles as we walk. “Why didn’t we drive? It’s too dang cold out here.”

Harriet gives the kind of sigh that means she’s heard this more than once from Ruth. “It would take us longer to scrape the ice from our windshields and warm the car than it takes to walk.” She also wears a long coat with a heavy scarf wrapped around her neck and over her hair, earmuffs, and winter mittens that might be bigger than her head. “You know, when Pete and I were living in tents in Iceland, we taught our bodies how to acclimate to the coldest of temperatures. This feels like a day at the beach to me.” The scarf muffles her voice, and the wind dissolves the volume, but I still hear her.

Ruth groans. “Harriet, was Iceland before or after the time you camped inside an active volcano?”

I laugh. Harriet and Pete had many adventures before settling in Whittier, but Ruth is of the opinion that they are also purveyors of tall tales.

“Oh, Ruth,” Harriet says. “After, of course, but before the archeological dig in Belize.”

Ruth barks a laugh, and despite the temperatures, their company adds a lightness to my step. We are walking in the direction of Whiskey Pete’s, but I can’t recall why, so I take a guess. “Is Dad joining us for dinner?” The question feels wrong, the words like blocks in my mouth.

Harriet and Ruth don’t answer at first, and with the wind, I’m not sure they’ve heard me. Their coats make a loud shuffling sound.

Ruth touches my arm. “Vance died five months ago from a heart attack, Claire. It’s something you know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”