After a rushed round of introductions at the airport with names overlapping, hands grabbing shoulders, and someone insisting Darcy had grown taller than expected even though they had just met, Ida finally clapped her mittened hands and ushered everyone toward the van.
"Enough standing around! Do you want frostbite?" she scolded, shooing them like an overly energetic shepherd. "Get in, get in! My grandsons will freeze solid out here."
The cold bit sharply at exposed skin. The wind carried a dry, powdery scent of snow, brushing across the runway and whispering through the sparse trees near the small regional airport. The sky was pale, almost white, and the light felt soft and diffused, as though the entire world had been wrapped in cotton.
The van doors slid open with a metallic rasp. One by one, they piled in, voices loud, boots thudding, scarves flapping. Micah was nudged toward the back, and Darcy followed, settling into the seat beside him at the very end.
