I'm halfway through my eighth pitch when Portia walks back into the lodge. She sits down beside me, swiveling on her barstool, and taps her fingernails on the bar. "Nothing."
"No planes?" I ask, watching the snow slide down her violet snowsuit, gathering in a puddle on the floor.
"Nothing," she repeats. "We're fucked."
"Great." I toss her a sympathetic smile, returning my attention to Evil Editor. "So. When Shastalinia returns to earth, she discovers the weredingos are actually humans from the future."
Portia snorts, avoiding the glass eyes of the animal heads decorating the walls. I catch her gaze, wondering if starvation can lead to telepathy. We're snowed in, my eyes say. Probably for good. Ellen would never know.
Before her eyes have a chance to reply, Evil Editor groans, resting his head on his pint glass. "If I don't eat something soon I'm going to murder someone."
"Tell me about it," Portia drawls, eying the bottles lining the shelves. "I'd kill for a decent martini."
I lean over the bar and hand her a beer.
Portia searches the label for nutritional information. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she drifts back to her days on the set of Ally McBeal, governed by the standard of the waif.
"Just drink," I say. "It's not like there's anything to eat."
"Nothing to eat," EE murmurs, watching Portia the way a cartoon cat watches a chicken, mentally transforming it into a golden, smoking roast. "Nothing . . . Wait." He lurches toward her, pointing with a shaking hand. "I can eat you."
Portia laughs, stepping away from the bar with her drink in hand. "Sorry honey," she says, taking a tiny sip. She savors the drink slowly, moving it around in her mouth. "I don't swing that way."