When he makes it inside, it seems like he brings half the storm with him, the front door to the inn blowing open and banging back against the wall, snow gusting around the hunched figure and sending pale flurries across the room and up the stairs.

The papers Karen's got spread across one of the tables try to make an escape and she darts splayed fingers out keep them in place, squinting up against the sudden onslaught of cold air. Hastily, she pulls a journal over as a makeshift paperweight and then dashes to help close the door against the gusting wind.

"I guess that means it's not slackening off," she says with a soft huff, an almost-laugh.