The booths are full of locals, laughing and chatting and indulging in pancakes and meatloaf and gossip—
Until the room notices me.
Heads turn, forks pause, and someone actually mutters, “she’s not from here.”
There’s nothingquitelike the feeling of walking into a snow-glazed diner in a town of nine-thousand where the welcome committee doubles as a jury.
I feel heavy under the pressure of so many strangers, but I ignore that feeling as I yank off my beanie, run a hand through my dark hair that frizzed into chaos somewhere around Wisconsin, and give the room a dry,yep-I-look-like-thissmile.
“Don’t mind me,” I say to nobody in particular. “Just your average half-frozen outsider trying not to die.”
A few people chuckle, and their attention returns slowly to their food.
Now that the ice has been broken, (no pun intended), I start to peel off layers: gloves first, then my scarf, then my coat. Behind the counter, a guy in a gray fleece zip-up grins at me, and I wonder whether he’s already decided I’m today’s entertainment.
He looks to be late twenties, maybe thirty at a push, with fair curls and scruff that screamsforgot to shave but still hot.
“You look like you just escaped a hostage situation with the blizzard,” he says.
“I did. Only lost one limb,” I reply. “Snow wolves got the rest. Tell my story.”
“Watch out for the pack near the post office,” he laughs. “They’re territorial.”
“I knew that blacked-out wreath was an omen.”
“You’re not wrong.” He sticks out his hand. “Name’s Rob: emergency diner staff.”
I take his hand.
“Emery,” I tell him. “New in town, and probably going to need a space heater surgically attached to my spine.”
Recognition sparks, and his grin tips sideways.
“Wait—Emery? As in, Emery Tate, the new PT for the Moose?”
“Uh... that’s me,” I nod. “I was supposed to meet Coach Phillips here a while ago, but GPS abandoned me somewhere near hell, and my phone died, so I’m more than just running late.”
Rob whistles.
“Driving in during a Nor’easter that’s got most of town holed up and two cars already in the lake is a bold move.”
“There are carsinthe lake?”
“Mmhm. One of them’s a tradition. The other one… might be Gary.”
“Poor Gary.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get swallowed by the Iron Lake Triangle,” he continues. “That’s a real thing, by the way.”
“Oh, it got me,” I say. “I did three identical loops around a creepy ass mailbox with a fake reindeer head. This town’s cursed, I swear.”
“Nah: that just means you’re officially local. It’s our mildly traumatic rite of passage.”
“Well, I’m honored,” I deadpan.
“Come on.” Rob gestures to the counter. “I've got Coach's number, so I'll let him know you're here, and Bev’s legally required to revive storm victims.”
As if on cue, an older woman with aggressively spiked short pink hair and a bedazzled nametag readingBEVappears. She’s holding a mug of coffee with fuzzy moose earrings dangling from her ears that jingle every time she moves.
