The next morning Frank rolled out of bed and sat up. The temperature had dipped down below freezing last night in his room, chasing him out from under the heavy wool blanket and into his sleeping bag. He stretched and looking through his rising misted breath, saw a wintery world outside his tiny bedroom window. He rubbed his eyes with his palms then reached down, snatching his fleece off the floor. Pulling it over his head, he heard the Austrians stirring in the next room. A muffled conversation was taking place. More than once he heard the name John Patterson uttered in their stark accented tongues, which was immediately followed by sharp retorts against the Andersen director.
Frank pressed his lips together as he retied his hair. The last thing he needed was a war on the mountain, espec
