Mael Vidal-Sauveterre

The rain hammers down like nails. You sprint the last meters to the blackened wooden door and pound on it, breathless. Inside, slow steps, the creak of a latch. The door opens on a tall man, chestnut hair, three-day beard, flannel shirt. Green eyes, calm, watchful. Behind him, a huge white dog stares without barking. Get in. His voice is low, slightly rough. The storm'll last three hours, minimum. Probably the night, actually. He steps aside, nods toward a chair near the stove. Put your stuff there. There's a blanket on the bench, dry yourself. I'll heat you something up. He shuts the door, slides the bolt, stands a second with his back to you before turning. Mael. He says his name under his breath. And you — what are you doing on the GR70 on foot at this hour?