I punch at the radio dial. Static. Again. “Nothing comes in here.”

“That’s because we’re in a valley, Jabir.” My twin brother, Hassan, takes his eyes off of the road long enough to jam one leather-gloved hand towards my passenger-side window. I turn my head and see a snow-covered mountain. “Perkins Peak, there, and Pennsylvania’s highest range, the Appalachians, over there.”

He motions out the driver’s side window, and as he does so, the car swerves slightly. The sliding sensation grows and Hassan slams both hands back on the wheel. He jerks it back and forth, trying to correct. “Shoot, this is getting slick.”

“Remind me again why you’re driving my new car?” I ask.

“Because, you have zero experience in the snow. I at least have some.”

“Barely.”

“More than you.”

I can hear resentment in my brother’s voice, and reluctantly I realize that it’s justified. Over the last few years, as our father began buying up industrial real estate to house our factories in America, Hassan has left our sunny home country of Dalia many more times than I. This might be fine, except for the fact that he’s the one with a one-year-old son at home, while I, the single one, have no reason not to travel abroad.

I move past his passive-aggressive comment with one of my own. “How am I going to learn how to drive in the snow if you don’t let me try?”

“Hey, I want to get to this town in one piece,” Hassan says. “This car isn’t made for weather like this. I told you we should have taken something with more stability.”

We’re sliding again, and now I’m too afraid to squabble anymore. I cling to the roll bar above my right shoulder for dear life. The newest model of Canarra’s sports line—my father’s company, for which Hassan and I both work—is designed for a racetrack, not the snow-covered Pennsylvania roads we’re traveling. Hassan’s right; my insistence on taking the sports car from the lot in New York, when we started our tour of our father’s Stateside Canarra factories, had been foolish.

Hassan scowls at the snow-covered road as if it’s his mortal enemy. “Keep trying to find some weather on there.” His voice is tight.

“I’m trying.”

I tap the “seek” button again. A country song jangles over the speakers, crackling with static. I’ve jacked the volume way up as I searched, and now I lower it.

Frustrated by the lack of reception, and possibly trying to displace my fear, I burst out with my complaints. “How do these people do it? Nothing comes in, except for fifty-year-old music! I feel like we’re going back in time or something. Don’t they miss modern amenities?”

A large wooden sign appears through the thick veil of snowfall. “New Hampstead. Population 203.”

“We made it,” Hassan breathes.

“Two hundred and three! That’s less than then number of people who live in the palace!”

Hassan chuckles, relaxing now that we’re rolling into town. “It’s rural America,” he says. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. A couple thousand?”

I continue flipping through the stations, also feeling more relaxed now. Finally, I catch a part of a weather report: “…two feet in Sharpee County, and we can expect more than that north of Sharpee, in Melrose and New Hampstead. So get out your snow shovels, folks! And make sure you have lots of water and firewood in the house, because with this much snow we are sure to see some power outages.”

I’m peering at the window, looking at the small town as we start to drive down what I can only assume is the main street. There are a few brick buildings, about five stories high. Besides that, the buildings are squat and wooden. Some have signs out front. I can’t read the signs through the flurry of white flakes, but I get the idea that they are naming businesses. Though it’s only five o’clock, the windows are dark.

“Where is everybody?” I turn to Hassan. It’s a nasty habit of mine to always rely on him for the answers. I have to remind myself that this is his first time in the small town as well, and that despite my respect for his intelligence, and the fact that he’s three minutes older than I, he isn’t all-knowing.

My brother, never one to turn down the opportunity to know something I don’t, takes a stab at an answer. “Probably all went home early for the storm,” he guesses. “I’m sure they’re have certain routines for weather like this, up here in the mountains like we are.”

I shake my head. “It’s so abandoned. There’s no way Father would put a factory here. Who would work at it? Are you sure this is the right place?”

“You saw the sign. This is New Hampstead.”

“Right.”

“Keep your eye out for a hotel or something,” Hassan says.

My face is glued to the window. I can’t help but frown as I look out at the narrow, people-less sidewalks, and scattering of closed businesses. “I could never do it.”

Hassan turns to me. “Do what?” he asks.

“Live somewhere like this,” I explain. “There is nothing going on here. I’d be bored out of my skull.”

“You don’t know that,” Hassan says with a shrug. He’s turned away from me, peering out his own window as we crawl down the street, which is blanketed with three inches of fluffy snow. “I think it would be peaceful. Quiet. I’m sure they like it here, or else why would they live here?”

“Maybe they don’t know anything else exists,” I offer. I can’t help but think about my own home. The marvelous, shining skyscrapers, the massive feats of architecture lining the white beaches of the turquoise gulf. “They don’t know any other way.”

Hassan chuckles again. “No, Brother. It’s you who is ignorant of another way. You’ve been stuck in Dalai City for too long, living the life of a single man.” He scoffs. “Not everyone wants a fast pace—clubs and all that nonsense. Once you find yourself a bride and settle down to have a family, you’ll see that—”

I stop him right there. “Not this again!” I shake a finger at him. “I get enough of this from Mother and Father. Now you, too?”

Hassan laughs outright. “Oh, you know you want to find a girl. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending! I’m married to the job.”

I shake my head, and in doing so, I spot a sign. It’s the only sign that’s lit up, that we’ve passed so far. Little spot lights cut through the fat flakes and illuminate golden script.

“The Mountain Laurel.” I read aloud. “Hold up. I think that’s a hotel.” I point.

Hassan sees it too, and pulls the car into the sloping driveway.

“Well?” he says. “What do you think?”

I pull out my phone. “I’ll see if they have vacancies, and what else is around.”

I wait impatiently for my phone to connect to the network. Nothing happens. Releasing the phone onto my lap, I give up and look around. “No connection here. I can’t get online.” I shift in my seat, peering back down the driveway and then up the street, in the direction we’ve yet to travel. Nothing but more darkness greets my search.

“Should we keep driving, and see what else is out there?” Hassan is looking, as I am, down the dark street.

I shake my head. “I don’t think we’ll find anything. This is the only lit-up sign we’ve seen since we got into town.”

Hassan nods. “The Mountain Laurel it is. Let’s hope there’s a vacancy. Maybe even for the next few days. Looks like we might not be leaving tomorrow evening as planned, if this keeps up.” He opens his door.

I follow Hassan’s lead and step out into the soft carpet of snow. It gathers around my suede loafers and clings to the bottom edges of my designer jeans.

I’ve seen snow before, but never coming down this hard, and not in a long time. I look up and feel immediately dizzied by the flakes zooming into my vision. I suddenly feel lost, as if I’m in a sci-fi movie, traveling in a spaceship through the stars.

“Come on!” Hassan is already at the front door, which is bright red and freshly painted. I hurry to catch up to him.

The hotel is simple enough; it’s a wide, three-story structure painted white, with a peaked roof. Four massive columns add an air of authority and luxury to the front facade.

A substantial polished-brass handle lets us through the front door and bells jingle as we step out of the snow. My mood is buoyed by how well kept the place is on the inside and the out. The lobby is sparkling clean, and my smile grows when a woman in her seventies with gold, wire-rimmed glasses and short grey hair warmly welcomes us.

I let Hassan work out the details, and simply gaze happily around the surroundings as he pays for the night. Before I know it, we’re walking up a wide staircase and down a long hallway.

A set of keys jingle in Hassan’s hand.

“Ah! Here we are,” he says. He steps through a door and I follow after him. Like the hotel’s fine exterior and the sparkling lobby, the room is perfectly kept. Every surface is polished and clean. There are two queen-sized beds, each topped with patchwork quilts in varying tones of blue.

Above each bed, I see beautiful sketches, done in charcoal. In one, a river cascades over large boulders. In the other, the river pools in a hole, and a cluster of tall pines stand guard over a few woodland creatures. Other than the artwork, the room is sparsely decorated. A blue vase holds boughs of holly, and the mahogany desk in the corner is topped with a few small china-blue sculptures.

I’ve always been the artistic one of the two of us, and while I take in the aesthetics of the room, Hassan is busy handling logistics. I hear him fiddling with the room’s heater. “Warm it up in here, why don’t we. Seventy-two. That sounds nice.” He continues muttering to himself as he adjusts the blinds and then uses the restroom.

I walk closer to the charcoal sketches, and start inspecting the artist’s lines. Hassan’s voice echoes out from the restroom. “A Jacuzzi bath, Jabir! Won’t that feel good later. Shall we grab dinner?”

“I’m starving. I think I could smell something cooking down there.”

“Didn’t you hear the hotel owner? She said that they have a dining area downstairs, and serve until nine.”

My stomach growls. “I’ll go get our bags. Be right back, and then we can go.”

The snow that accumulated around my shoes has now melted, leaving my feet wet and cold. I want to change before dinner. I hurry down the stairs, and out to the car. It’s a bit of a struggle to manage both Hassan’s and my own rolling suitcases, but somehow I make it back to the inn, up the staircase, and down the hall into our room.

Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing fresh, dry pants and a pair of sandals. Not perfect, but better than my soaked loafers.

Hassan and I find seats in the little dining area, just a few feet away from a roaring fireplace. Classical music is playing softly in the background, and about half of the tables are occupied by couples and one family with a few young kids.

The atmosphere is warm and inviting, and the smells coming from the kitchen are to die for. Fresh bread, grilling meat, and undertones of something sugary sweet waft through the warm air.

I remove the heavy silverware from the thick cloth napkin to the right of my plate. I’m smoothing my napkin onto my lap, enjoying the warmth emanating from the fireplaces as it hits my bare toes, when a voice meets my ears.

“Welcome to the Mountain Laurel,” it says, softly.

I look up.

There’s a woman standing at our table. She’s very pretty, I have to admit, with wavy, pale blond hair that ends just above her shoulders. Her grey-blue eyes are wide set, and along with her petite nose and cherry-red lips, she looks kind of angelic.

She smiles, and her eyes sparkle. “What brings you to town? I’m sure I’ve never seen you here before. Did you stop because of the storm?” She’s turning over the larger of a set of two wine glasses near my plate, and then Hassan’s.

She lifts mine, and starts filling it with water from a silver pitcher. Ice cubes slosh into the glass along with the water. Her blond hair slips over one of her pretty eyes as she works.

Hassan clears his throat, and I can tell he’s prompting me to answer.

I speak. “Oh. Ah… We’re here on a business trip. From Dalai.”

“Dalai? Never heard of it. Where’s that?” She hands us each a short, laminated menu, trimmed in brown leather.

“The Middle East,” I answer. “On the Persian Gulf.”

“Oh!” Her eyes get wide as she lifts Hassan’s glass and starts filling it. “That’s a long way!” She smiles again. “It’s so nice to meet you both. My name is Teresa, and I’ll be your server tonight.”

She pauses, and I feel that she’s waiting for our names. This is not how it is at restaurants in my city, but I’m getting the feeling that this small town’s customs are different than the ones I’m used to. “I’m Jabir,” I say. “And this is my brother, Hassan.”

I wait to see if she extends her hand. I’ve learned all about hand shaking, but I don’t know if it’s appropriate in this setting.

Instead of offering up a palm, however, she motions lightly to the menu in my hands. “Well, Jabir. That’s our menu.” She goes over the special quickly, and then announces that she’ll be right back with a bread basket.

As soon as she leaves our presence, Hassan gives me a knowing look. “Well, well, well,” he says. “How do you like this town now? Not so boring anymore?” He lifts a dark eyebrow.

I’m scanning the list of entrees. “What do you mean?”

“Our waitress. There was some tension between you too.”

I scoff, and start reading through a list of salad dressing options.

“I saw the way you looked at her,” Hassan says.

“We don’t see blond hair that often,” I say with a shrug. I look up at Hassan. “That’s all.”

He gives me a knowing look and then lifts his water glass. “Sure, Brother.”

Before he can harass me some more, she’s back. She sets down a basket of bread disks, still steaming as if the loaf was just pulled from the oven and sliced. I can’t help but reach for one, as she’s still arranging a little white ceramic bowl of gold-foil wrapped pads of butter.

I place the bread on my plate and eagerly pick out some butter.

“I see you’re hungry!” She says warmly, getting her notepad out. “Traveling can do that, can’t it. Would you like me to put in your order so that our chef can get started on your meals?”

I nod. I’ve glanced over the entrees, and none look quite as good as the special she’s listed off: salmon in a lemon-dill sauce. Hassan, however, shakes his head as he picks up the menu. “I haven’t quite—”

“That’s okay,” Teresa holds up a hand. “I don’t mean to rush you. Take your time.” She turns and is about to walk away, but she hesitates. She swivels back to us.

“Is it hot there, in Dalai, where you’re from?” she asks. “I saw that you’re wearing”—she glances at my feet, which I’ve sort of stuck out from under the table, stretching my toes towards the warm fire—“…sandals.”

I grin “It’s probably in the seventies right now.” I let my mind wander to our white beaches. “If I was at home, I might be swimming in the gulf or sunbathing on the shore.”

“In the seventies! In November! I can’t imagine that. Well, I hope you don’t get the idea that it’s always so cold and dark here. This is our first big storm of the year. Up till now, the weather’s been nice and mild. Sunny during the day, even. But not sunny enough for those.” She points at my feet.

“No.” I tuck my feet back under the table, out of sight. “I’m not sure why I even brought these. Our first stop was upstate New York yesterday, before driving here. I guess I thought there might be an indoor pool, or a spa of some kind…”

She shakes her head. “Not here. We have an outdoor pool, but that’s been closed now since Labor Day.” She bites her lip, thinking. “No swimming, but… Oh! Did you bring ice skates? There’s a group of teens in town who always clear off a pond off of Jericho Road, for pond hockey!”

Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “No skates,” I say.

“Snow shoes? Cross-country skis?” she asks.

Again, I shake my head. “We’re mostly going to be in meetings,” I say.

I’m sure she picks up on the lack of enthusiasm in my tone, because she lifts a finger. “I know!” she says. “You can catch the talent show on Friday night! Sue Jackson is going to be playing her violin, and her daughter’s on the harp. That would give you some nice entertainment for in the evening, at least. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but Sue could be famous, she’s so good.”

I’m about to tell her that we might not be here on Friday, depending on the weather, when her face lights up again. “And today’s Wednesday! Lucky you! Pete Dawson does all of his baking on Thursdays, so if you go down to Dawson’s tomorrow, you’ll have your choice of hot-out-of-the-oven pies and pastries; apple, chocolate cream, maple-pecan…”

Now that does sound pretty good. But what’s Dawson’s? I’m about to ask, when Hassan interrupts.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says, setting down the menu. “I’m ready.”

She lifts her notebook. “What’ll it be?”

“I’d like to try your filet mignon with porcini mushrooms,” Hassan says, pointing to a line on the menu.

She nods and jots down his order, and then turns to face me. “And you?”

“I’d like the special.”

“Oh, you’ll be happy. That’s what I had earlier. One of Neville’s best.” She turns to Hassan. “The steak is delicious, too. Great! I’ll be back shortly.” She gives another friendly smile.

Again, as she departs, Hassan lifts his eyebrows and waggles them. “You two are getting along well!” he says.

“Please!” I say. “Will you give it a rest already! I’m just being a friendly guest.”

Hassan opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s going to tease me about just how friendly I want to be, but I interrupt before he can. “Let’s figure out our strategy for tomorrow. I want to make sure we’re on the same page when we meet with the plant manager and his assistant.”

“Look at you! Wanting to talk business.”

I reach for a second helping of bread, because I’ve already scarfed down the first buttered slice. The butter melted into the fluffy white bread, and Teresa is right, this Neville is a good chef. “It’s better than catching more grief about being single. All right… so, these guys are building our transmissions, right?”

Hassan nods. “And sending them down the river on ships, to a small city one hundred miles to the southwest. That’s where we’ve got frames being built—the town’s one of the carbon-steel capitals in America’s northeast.”

“Is that really cost effective? Having the transmissions built up here in the mountains, and then taking the time to ship them out to another factory?”

Hassan reaches for a piece of bread, too. “That’s what we have to decide. Father says there’s been many of delays on the New Hampstead end of things, causing problems down the line. Either we have to invest more money in the factory here to fix the hang ups, or we have to close it up and move production elsewhere.”

“Hmm…” I’m thoughtful as I chew the soft, warm bread.

For a few minutes, our table is quiet. The music plays softly, and the fire crackles. I zone out, deep in thought. Part of my mind is listening to the low conversation of the dinner guests all around us, and part of me is thinking over the decision we’re going to have to make.

Finally, I break the silence. “That’s going to be a tough call.”

“The meeting tomorrow will give us some good data,” Hassan says. “I’ve requested production reports for the past eighteen months, as well as all of the shipping timetables.”

As usual, Hassan’s mind is set on seeing the numbers. I’m more of a big-picture guy. “I wonder what the plant manager is going to be like,” I muse. “That will tell us a lot. Have you talked with him?”

“Once or twice on the phone.”

“What’s your first impression?”

Hassan leans back. “Seems to me like a nice enough guy.”

That’s not helpful information, but I don’t pry any farther. I’ve learned over the years that Hassan doesn’t read people like I can. I need to meet the man, and the other workers at the plant, for myself. I’m also looking forward to seeing how the place looks. Will I see signs of meticulous upkeep, like I see at the Mountain Laurel? So far, my impression of New Hampstead is good, and I’m curious to see if that will continue tomorrow. More minutes pass in silence as I think.

Finally, I say, “It will be good to meet the manager. The leadership says a lot about a place, I think. We’ll go into this open-minded, yes? Either the transmission plant stays open, and we tell Father that it’s worth investing in, or…we close it down. We’ll make our decision after the meeting.”

“Exactly,” Hassan affirms, just as Teresa arrives with our steaming plates of food.