Two thermoses of the Coffee Depot’s holiday blend rest between Malcolm and me on the truck’s front seat. It’s his turn to drive, so I clutch the Tupperware container that holds Harold’s ghost. It swirls inside, still fairly weak. I thought about offering it a hot chocolate, but I don’t dare crack the lid.
After much debate among the three of us—me, Malcolm, Delilah—we decide to head east into Wisconsin. The highways are clear in that direction. North is out of the question. It makes no sense to head toward the Twin Cities and the necromancers who would no doubt like to capture both Delilah and Harold’s ghost.
East also isn’t quite as desolate—or dangerous—as the Dakotas. Snow, wind, a sudden storm, and we could end up trapped for days.
When we cross the Mississippi, Delilah ricochets ar
