Kit/Mari/Dinah/Cris: the convenience store
Kit hadn't forgotten the South's heat. It made the day slack and lazy, gummy with humidity. It lived on, he imagined, somewhere inside his bones if you were being poetic about it, and in his internal thermostat if you were not. He'd been bitterly cold in Scotland. He'd worn sweaters on sweaters, in the boarding school where the heat was turned off from the first of April, whether it was snowing outside or not. Which was to say, Kit wasn't weighed down by the heat. He'd several summers of Alabama at his back even if he was a white man from Scotland, practically.
He was wearing a white henley shirt, rolled at the sleeves that looked like you could buy it in a packet of three at Walmart, over jeans, and he wasn't wearing a hat. The convenience store wasn't all that far from the B&B, it was all straight roads but it was straight roads without shade. When Kit walked through the door, he exhaled briefly as the cold air rolled over his face and he stopped under the line of price-points that dangled over his head. Kit wasn't especially impressive in appearance. He was tall, and he was thin. He looked like the kind of man who would tell you the time if you asked.