snow's not important
She'd been up early, busy making a breakfast that wasn't for herself. She'd made scrambled eggs, sweet corn pancakes, and a small blueberry tart, along with coffee and managed to get it (covered and protected from the cold) back to New Atlantis long enough to grab the origami box she'd made (it had been fun to fold and almost resembled the whoosh of a Stargate. Almost.). In it was a palm sized replica, made out of paper and neatly detailed, of an F-302. With the sky lightening to a healthy (but arguably freezing) shade of blue, Lam shifted and knocked on the door of Mitchell's yurt...and hoped to God she would freeze to death right then and there.
Today was a good day, especially since it was Mitchell's birthday. Those were the sort of things no one forgot, not really, and she'd had days to decide what she wanted to do. Breakfast and a poor substitute for a plane were the best things she could accomplish. At least they were good in some respect. Knowing Mitchell he was probably awake, but she called out in a voice that was, sadly, not as strong as she might like.
Damn the cold.
And damn her parka, too.
Today was a good day, especially since it was Mitchell's birthday. Those were the sort of things no one forgot, not really, and she'd had days to decide what she wanted to do. Breakfast and a poor substitute for a plane were the best things she could accomplish. At least they were good in some respect. Knowing Mitchell he was probably awake, but she called out in a voice that was, sadly, not as strong as she might like.
Damn the cold.
And damn her parka, too.