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can—”
    “There’s a phone on the wall around there in the kitchen. Do me a favor and call your supervisor and give me a jump start on this thing, will you?”
    Hoptman and Scannell exchanged confused glances. “I don’t understand, sir,” the officer said. “A jump start on what?”
    “On finding my son.”
    Scannell sighed deeply and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “Look, Mr. O’Toole, at times like these the tendency is to reject bad news. It’s only human. But I really must say—”
    “Save it, Father,” Brandon interrupted. He didn’t care that it came out harshly. “I know what the chances of survival out there are, okay? I’m a ski patroller myself. But you know what? Scott has camped his whole life. Just last year, we took a winter survival class together.” He turned to Hoptman. “Do you think anyone out there knows that?”
    The officer didn’t answer, obviously assuming the question to be rhetorical. He seemed startled when he realized otherwise. “No, sir, I suppose not.”
    “Don’t you think we should tell them, then? Whoever they are?”
    Hoptman nodded.
    “Did I mention that there’s a phone in the kitchen?”
    The cop knew his cue when he heard it, and he rose quickly from the sofa and disappeared.
    “Please don’t expect the unreasonable,” Father Scannell warned.
    Brandon eyed the priest narrowly. The man meant well, but he didn’t understand. Not Scott and certainly not Brandon. “Isn’t that what prayers are all about, Father?”

4
    T HE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF T EDDY wasn’t much of a talker by nature, but tonight the role required it, so he just chatted along as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. In the past five hours, he’d covered music, food, movies, religion and politics—the latter only after listening carefully to what his new friend thought about the issues. No sense unnecessarily pissing people off. For a while there, back in the truck stop, he was worried that he might be laying it on a little too thick, but in retrospect he should have known better. Some people were just too friendly for their own good.
    But ultimately, when the heavens dumped this much snow, only the weather made the A-list for discussion. Would they close the interstates or wouldn’t they? How many New York skiers would turn up frozen to death in the morning? One particularly animated discussion among the truckers was the ethical reasonableness of pushing stranded four-wheelers off the road when they were stupid enough to drive in powder that was deeper than their axles were high.
    The truck stop banter required the patience of a fisherman. Fact was, if Teddy hadn’t hooked a ride with someone—if he’d gotten stranded there—his careful planning could have unraveled very quickly. He could have found solace in the fact that the cops had far more important things to do on a night like this than trace the tags on his car, but it wasn’t impossible, and as a man who stayed alive by controlling risk, he’d wanted to be back on the road as quickly as possible. The idea was to abandon the car at the truck stop and catch a ride under the auspices of having hitchhiked this far. Tomorrow was his mother’s eightieth birthday, don’t you know, and he was coming home to her as a surprise.
    Teddy’s mother had had more eightieth birthdays than McDonald’s has fries.
    One guy in particular had looked like he might be a strong candidate. He sat in a far corner and made eye contact periodically, but every time Teddy had offered a smile, the other guy looked away. Teddy didn’t like that. He’d considered for a moment that maybe the guy was watching him—that he knew more than he should—but the very idea seemed preposterous. Still, one could never be too careful. Teddy had decided to make the first move if the stranger didn’t approach soon. All the professionalism in the world couldn’t crush irrational paranoia completely.
    The stranger in the booth became irrelevant,