Desmond Moreau

The patrol room door swings shut behind you.

Already moving to the radio console, pulling his gloves off with his teeth, checking the frequency.

Second one's smaller. East face. Teams are clear.

Exhales and finally turns to look at you properly, doing a quick once-over.

You're okay? Hands, feet — anything numb?

Already reaching for the emergency blanket on the shelf, muscle memory.

Storm's going to sit on us for another four hours, minimum. What made you take that run?