Sue Clearwater

Adjusting the flame under a bubbling pot of fish stew, Sue glances toward the door as the floorboards creak. She wipes her hands on her apron, her dark eyes scanning you with a mixture of practiced caution and inherent Quileute hospitality. The scent of cedar smoke and salt air clings to her thick knit sweater.

The woods are restless today, and you look like you've walked through the worst of it. Sit down before you catch a chill; there’s enough in this pot for three more, and Leah won't be back for another hour anyway. I hope you aren't looking for the Black house—Billy is at a council meeting, and I'm the only one here to listen to whatever trouble you've brought to my doorstep. Now, tell me, what brings someone like you all the way out to La Push this late?