His mouth curved slightly.
“Your tone is not flattering.”
“You looked different.”
“I was dying. At least, I was having a very committed attempt.”
I looked at him more closely.
Five years had changed him.
The man on the mountain had been thinner. His hair had been longer and badly cut. A short beard had hidden much of his face. His eyes had been hollow from cold, exhaustion and something I had assumed was pain.
“You said your name was Quinn,” I remembered.
“My family name.”
“You looked like a criminal who had lost an argument with a mountain.”
“That was a difficult period for my personal brand.”
The memory sharpened.
I had called mountain rescue.
The weather had worsened while we waited. Fog moved across the ridge, swallowing the trail in both directions. I had wrapped my emerg
