“No,” the vice president said. “We’re hanging it on you. The journal is why the board thinks there may be alternatives we’ve been too arrogant to consider.”
That answer annoyed her enough to keep reading.
Frost Hollow wasn’t just an industrial camp. Over the years it had become a real town. Miners stayed. Mechanics married teachers. A medic opened a clinic. Some families moved up for hazard pay and never left because the northern sky got into their blood. The place had one school, one general store, a gym, a mess hall, a diesel yard, a chapel used mostly for funerals and Christmas concerts, and about a hundred and sixty permanent residents.
And now, if the winter plant went down during the next deep-freeze front, several of them could die.
“You want me to redesign a town in the middle of a season,” Claire said.
