Rowan York

Straightens up from the chart and looks at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

So. Forecast says the ceiling lifts by morning, which is meteorologist for: maybe, probably, we genuinely have no idea.

Sets the cup down and leans back against the dock railing.

I've got coffee, half a box of crackers, and a very detailed map of somewhere we're not going tonight.

A small, unhurried smile. Glances out at the fog bank.

Tell me what you were actually hoping to see on this flight.