“Nice army boots.” Bernie’s first words to Frances. “They go with the brush cut.”
“Thanks,” Frances said sweetly.
Bernie wrapped a single arm around Frances, pulling her close. “Sarcasm, sweetie.” She ran her hand across Frances’s flattop. “What were you thinking here?”
Frances swung her backpack with her free arm and headed toward the doors.
Bernie fired up a smoke as soon as they got into the car. “I’m trying to quit,” she said.
Frances unrolled her window.
“You’ll see why it’s so hard.” Bernie took a long drag on her cigarette.
They drove in silence. Barlow Trail rolled past, the mountains, already dusted with snow, marking the western horizon. Then the Sheraton Hotel, the Husky truck stop, the endless repair and service shops housed in dull beige buildings and, after the imp
