DIRTY PAGES (A Short Story Collection)
The hiss of the burner joins the rattle of wind against the walls, but despite the storm, the heaters working it's magic and our little outpost is starting to feel warm and snug.
I check the weather console. A crust of frozen pixels still smears across the lower half of the second digit where Bear smacked it earlier, but it seems to read --28°C outside. It should be dark by now, yet the snow clouds have swallowed the night and turned it into a pale fog of blue and grey. When I return my gaze, Nora is watching me with a bemused smile.
"You know whiteouts can generate infrasound?" she says, clearly relishing my curiosity. "Some expedition journals even mention hearing phantom voices."