He pulled a brass-tipped scraper from the door pocket and immediately started hacking at the ice on his windshield with sharp, rhythmic chops.

Nathaniel pushed his leather gloves into his coat pocket, his knuckles resting against the small tin box of dried clover.

He stepped out into the gravel lot before Brenda could close her clipboard.

“Arthur,” Nathaniel called across the pavement.

Arthur turned, his broad face red from the wind.

He let out a big, booming laugh that carried across the frozen gravel toward the highway lanes.

“Nathaniel!