15
By the time a helo could be freed to return them from Hurricane Ridge to Port Angeles, it was late afternoon and Jeremy’s stomach was beyond growling. A hurried bowl of granola before sunrise was long gone. An energy bar for lunch simply didn’t fix that.
Thankfully, the helo pilot was the same local who’d delivered them to the crash site.
“Best fancy or best burger?” he’d asked at Jeremy’s question about places to eat.
Jeremy didn’t even poll the others before saying they wanted the latter.
So the pilot sent them to The Rail. It was just a mile or so from the airport, close by the Port Angeles waterfront.
The building had the gambrel roofline of an old Dairy Queen.
Inside, the ice cream parlor had been converted into pure pub: wooden walls, a long bar well stocked with microbrew
