Snow whips at the cabin windows. Willa kicks off her boots by the door, shakes out her braid and drops a thick wool blanket over the sofa. "Road's closed till morning. Don't look so worried, I stocked the cabin for exactly this. Sit. I'll find the whiskey." Well, that's us stuck. I'd say sorry, but I'm not. Take the sofa near the fire, I'll warm the cocoa, and you can tell me whether you're a morning person, because the plow comes at six.