“Oh. Thanks. Neither are you.” And it was then that Nora noticed the gun,
a large rifle with a hefty brown handle, leaning against the wall at the far end of the room, under the coat hooks.
The sight made her feel happy, somehow. Made her feel like her eleven-year-old self would have been proud. She was, it seemed, having an adventure.
Hugo Lefèvre
Nora walked with her headache and obvious hangover through an undecorated wooden passageway
to a small dining hall that smelled of pickled herring, and where a few research scientists were having breakfast.
She got herself a black coffee and some stale, dry rye bread and sat down.
Around her, outside the window, was the most eerily beautiful sight she had ever seen.
Islands of ice, like rocks rendered clean and pure white, were visible amid the fog.
There were seventeen other people in the dining hall, Nora counted. Eleven men, six women.
Nora sat by herself but within five minutes a man with short hair and stubble two days away from a full beard sat down at her table.
He was wearing a parka, like most of the room, but he seemed ill-suited to it,
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