I was defiant, I was gawky, I was just out of adolescence, and she thought I was the most dangerous thing she’d ever seen. “This is a mistake,” said the old man sitting next to her. He had fine white hair, a barrel chest, fair skin with red blotches that spoke of a fondness for the whiskey barrel. “That bitch is trouble.” “Bob,” Marion said, “give it a rest. The voting’s over. You lost.” She said that not because she disagreed with him, but because she simply disliked the man. Bad Bob, her memories named him. There was something about him that set her teeth on edge, always had. He was, without a doubt, one of the best of the Weather Wardens in terms of skill, but in terms of personality… He was staring at the door through which the earlier version of me had exited. He and Marion weren’t the only ones in the room; there were three others involved in a separate side conversation, muttering to one another and casting glances toward Bad Bob that made me think he wasn’t exactly well loved, though obviously he commanded respect.
