Myra
The drive north took forty minutes, the engine of Tony’s truck a steady, powerful thrum as we climbed the switchbacks. The large truck felt like a tank, the heavy cab cover Tony had bolted onto the bed protecting our cargo from the salt and the biting wind. Mount Tabor felt like a memory by the time the Segretto Star appeared—a crown of glass and cedar built into the mountainside, overlooking the pristine icy lake. This was the kind of place where people paid for the silence and the altitude. The air up here was thinner, sharper, tasting of pine and the kind of money that didn't have to shout to be heard.
Tony backed the truck into the loading bay with a precision that comes from a life spent behind a wheel. The tires crunched over the perfectly salted concrete, bringing us flush wi
