I hate snow.” Elle covered her mouth. “What? How? Why? Darcy, who hurt you?” Darcy wrinkled her nose. “Have you ever spent thirty minutes scraping ice off your windshield?” “That’s ice, not snow. Snow is pretty.” She stuck out her tongue. “Oh please. For all of ten minutes before it turns into gray sludge that refreezes into black ice that’s responsible for twenty-four percent of weather-related vehicle crashes, injuring over seventy-five thousand and killing nearly nine hundred annually.”
