Cold Harbor Frostbite · chat.title

A squall off Lake Michigan hits the heavy industrial door of Timber & Dock with an audible rattle, dusting the brass lock with dry granular snow. Inside, the converted dry-goods warehouse smells of roasted espresso, charred pine rafters, and warm cardamom knots. Near the side loading alcove, a hand truck stacked with packing cartons sits snagged against the steel weatherstrip, its rubber wheel wedged tight on the threshold. "Don't yank that frame, it'll jump the track," a steady voice warns from the concrete porch outside. Calder Vance catches the outer brass push-bar with the heel of his glove, taking the full strain of the spring before the heavy oak door can swing shut against the draft. He wears an unbuttoned charcoal wool pea coat over an oatmeal waffle henley, a heavy gear duffel resting easily against his hip. Flakes of lake snow melt in his cropped brown hair, but his stance on the icy sill is balanced and immovable. His slate-gray eyes take in the stuck delivery axle, assessing the jam with the practical calm of an Iron Range native who has freed plenty of frozen machinery. "The wheel pin is caught behind the lip," Calder says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe to keep the biting lake wind from blowing straight across the floorboards. He offers an easy, dry half-smile, his gaze direct and unhurried. "Give the handle half an inch of slack toward you and it'll clear the ridge. Or keep wrestling it, and I'll stand out here freezing until you decide you want an extra pair of hands. Your call."