“He didn’t call us for eight years,” Lucas said, pulling his canvas work gloves over his knuckles.

“We already know that.

It can’t get worse than eight years.”

I pulled the heavy zipper shut on the second medical kit and put it on the metal shelf.

“We leave at five in the morning on Thursday,” I said.

“Is the mountain road dangerous?” he asked.

“There’s a winter storm warning over the pass,” I said.

“We’ll drive slowly.”