He pulled out a slim black leather wallet, opening it to reveal a gold-rimmed identification card and a thick, crisp fold of high-denomination bills.

He held it near the window frame, just out of reach of the biting wind.

“It was a late addition to the schedule,” Charles added, his voice dropping slightly.

“A matter of urgent private investment for the facility.”

The guard looked down at the money, then up at the dark, frozen hills behind us, where the storm was howling through the pines.

He reached out, his thick gloved hand brushing against Charles’s fingers as the bills disappeared into his palm.

“Hold on,” the guard muttered.

He turned and walked back to the guardhouse, his heavy boots crunching loudly in the packed, frozen snow.

I held my breath, watching his silhouette through the frosted glass of the small booth.

“Will this work?” I whispered, my fingers digging into the worn fabric of my coat.

“Everyone has a price, Emily,” Charles said quietly, keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror.

“Especially people who work in places that the rest of the world is meant to forget.”