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Michael
Michael Arriving at the mill, we pull in to a sea of mud. It’s not raining right now, but it was five minutes ago, and the clouds are threatening another downpour any time now. The temperature’s falling fast and mist swirls in from the river. Klempner stamps out of the cab. Within a few steps, his boots are heavy with clay. He casts around with a doubtful eye, slapping his arms around himself. “When is it they’re having this wedding?” “December twenty-ninth.” “Hmmm.” Both face and tone remain neutral. Cold pinches at his face, turning his nose red and his skin ruddy. Although he’s more or less recovered from his underground ordeal, courtesy of that maniac Juliana, he’s not recovered all his weight yet and he’s still gaunt. Despite the blondish beard, there’s a faint hollow to his cheek
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