Ghoulash The storm came down in sheets of ice and snow, cutting at his face as though the wind itself had grown teeth, and for a moment the American wondered if this had been a mistake. The horse was useless now, limping somewhere behind him, its breath steaming in the dark, unable to carry him further through the drifts. He had left it tethered at the edge of the village when the light from a lantern pierced the storm, bobbing faintly, promising warmth. It was all he could think of—warmth, a fire, something hot to drink. When the door of the tavern creaked open beneath his hand and the wind blew in with him, it felt less like he was entering a place of rest and more like he had stumbled into a secret he was never meant to find. The fire in the hearth flared at the intrusion, scattering sparks, and every face in the room turned toward him, their eyes gleaming with suspicion. There could not have been more than twenty souls gathered there, men and women wrapped in thick wool,...