The first flurries of wet snow were already slanting from the deep-slate sky when Ian arrived at Yatesville. As soon as he pulled up, Chrissie emerged from the door and ran to his side. She carried a black contractor’s garbage bag so bulky, it took both arms. A headlamp dangled from one of her hands. She handed it to him.
“So you can see through the storm,” she told him. “It’s getting dark fast.”
“What are we doing?”
“We’re getting front-row seats to the last winter storm of the year.” Who could resist the call to adventure in her smile? He put on the headlamp, which was like a primitive younger brother of the fiber-optic headlight he used during surgery.
“Can you carry this bag to the lighthouse? I have another load to grab. I’ll be right behind you.” She thrust the garbage bag at hi
