The Arctic Code Read Free

probably say it was ‘devilishly clever’ that I made my own snow.”
    He nodded. “Sounds like her. And since you already know what she would say, I don’t think you need to waste the little time you get to talk with her making her say it.”
    â€œYou mean . . .”
    Uncle Jack ran his hand back and forth across the top of the steering wheel. “I mean we’ll wait until she gets back from the Arctic to fill her in.”
    Eleanor smiled, relieved. “Thanks, Uncle Jack.”
    â€œNo problem. But if you end up dead or in jail, I’ll have to spill the beans. Got it?”
    Eleanor laughed. “Got it.” But her laughter faded quickly. “She was supposed to be home by now.”
    â€œI know. She’d be here if she could.”
    â€œBut she hasn’t even told us why she’s still up there.”
    â€œShe will when she can.”
    Eleanor gave a very small nod.
    â€œOkay, get on inside. I gotta head back and finish my shift.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Uncle Jack. I didn’t mean to mess up your job.”
    â€œIt’s okay. Maybe if I weren’t working so many hours, I’d be around to keep you out of trouble.”
    â€œOh, you think you can keep me out of trouble, do you?”
    Uncle Jack shrugged. “I can try.”
    Eleanor opened her door. “Love you, Uncle Jack.”
    â€œLove you, too, Ell Bell.”
    Before she shut the door, he craned toward her across the passenger seat and looked up. “Oh, and Ellie?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œFor the record, I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself.” He winked.
    Eleanor winked back and went inside.
    L ater that evening, Eleanor woke up to the sound of Uncle Jack in the kitchen downstairs. She’d lain down for a Sunday-afternoon nap shortly after he’d gone backto work, and opened her eyes to a room striped with evening sunlight through her blinds. It was a golden light, but cold like exposed metal. Her mom and Uncle Jack could remember a different sun, a warmer sun that reached through the cold and could even make you sweat. The distant sun Eleanor knew wasn’t something she ever looked to for heat. She climbed out of bed and shivered a little, shuffled into her slippers, and left her room.
    Their house was small—her mom insisted it was “cozy”—just the two bedrooms upstairs with a bathroom they shared when her mom wasn’t in the Arctic, and the kitchen and living room downstairs. Her mom didn’t exactly have an eye for design or decoration. The bare walls were the same hospital white they’d been when they’d first moved in ten years ago, though Eleanor had hung a changing parade of posters in her bedroom. Right now, she liked old movie banners, a phase her mom described as “Unintentionally Ironic Vintage.”
    Down in the kitchen, Uncle Jack stood at the stove wearing one of her mother’s flowered aprons over his blue coveralls. Eleanor shook her head at the strings straining to reach around him, tied in a small and desperate knot high on his back.
    He turned as she walked in. “Hungry?”
    â€œIt smells delicious.”
    â€œI can’t make any promises.” Uncle Jack always said that but never needed to. “They’re supposed to be rosemary biscuits.” He pulled on an oven mitt that matched the apron, part of a set. “I had to use the toaster oven to save gas, and the blasted thing won’t go high enough for them to rise properly.” He bent over, peering through the little smoky glass window. A few moments later, he seemed to sense something and pulled the baking sheet from the oven laden with plump, golden mounds.
    â€œThey look wonderful,” Eleanor said. “And I’m sure they’ll taste even better.”
    He frowned. “Get yourself a plate.”
    She grabbed a dish from the cupboard, and he served her up a biscuit.
    â€œHere,” he said. “I