18
Adam had gone quiet. Luther glanced over at him. He’d finally stopped fidgeting with his seat belt and gazed out the window, tracing patterns on the cold glass with his finger.
The bulk of the mountain was on Luther’s side, blocking the direct sun, while it dropped away on Adam’s side, revealing brighter valleys and east-facing mountainsides in the distance. A river ran somewhere below them, hidden now by topography and seemingly infinite, bunched-together trees. Their deadfall leaves, gray and brown trunks, and clumps of evergreen foliage dominated the mountain palette, but Luther still asked, “Any snow out there?”
“No.”
Luther rubbed his cold hand across his face. He’d done a piss-poor job of shaving that morning. Or had he even bothered? He kicked the heat up a notch. “Weather’s
