The small coastal airport near Owls Head, Maine is quiet, swallowed whole by a soft, thick blanket of falling white.
The engine rumble of our twin-propeller commuter plane dies down into a low whine, and as soon as the cabin door unseals and pushes outward, the sharp, pine-scented chill of the northern air rushes down the aisle. It sweeps away the stuffy, recirculated heat of the cabin, instantly clearing the last lingering traces of airport heaviness from my head.
Locke doesn't just walk beside me, he guards me. The moment our boots hit the top step of the outdoor boarding stairs, he shifts his massive frame onto the windward side, using his leather jacket and broad shoulders like a permanent wall against the biting ocean breeze.
"I have real winter boots on today, Locke," I say, my
