A side door of the stone guardhouse clicked open, and a man in a thick, dark blue parka stepped out into the swirling wind.

He carried a heavy black flashlight, the beam bouncing across the hood of our truck as he approached the driver’s side.

Charles rolled down his window, letting in a sudden swirl of icy air and the deep rumble of the idling engine.

“This is private property,” the guard said, his voice muffled by a thick wool scarf wrapped over his mouth and nose.

“The road is closed to the public during the storm.”

Charles did not flinch or look away from the guard’s cold eyes.

“I am Charles Whitmore,” he said, his tone calm, steady, and loud enough to cut through the whistling wind.

“I have an appointment with the night administrator, Dr. Kenneth.”

The guard squinted, shifting his flashlight to shine directly onto Charles’s face, studying his features.

“I don’t have any Whitmore on my log for tonight, sir,” the guard said, though his tone softened slightly at the name.

“Check again,” Charles said, reaching slowly into his heavy wool coat pocket.