Bon Iver pulls to the shoulder of the road. Our skis drip slush from their rooftop rack. The bundled-up teen hitchhiker breaks into a run when he sees Bon Iver stop, and by the time he gets his snowboard onto the roof and himself into the backseat, he’s red and out of breath.
‘Get comfortable, new friend,’ says Bon Iver, passing back the bag of chocolate chip cookies. ‘We were just in the middle of listing our favorite kinds of clouds!’