Mom’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously. Of course it does. She lost her sister last Christmas. Daniel a couple of weeks ago. And now her only daughter is driving through a snowstorm that news outlets are treating like the blizzard that drove people to cannibalism on Donner Pass.
The message appears.
Mom: Who are you with? What kind of SUV? I don’t know that I like this.
Me: Don’t worry. The roads aren’t even that bad. Seriously, it’s mostly flurries. I’ll call in a few. I can’t wait to see you!
Mom: You too, but this storm is getting bad. Please call.
The SUV slows and I look up from my phone to see a smattering of brake lights. Outside, the snow has started to stick, but just barely. Tire tracks ahead leave wide dark trails through the white.
“The traffic is going to get worse,” Brecken says.
“I think you’re right,” Josh responds, the light from his phone illuminating his face. “It’s nothing but red in ten miles. It looks like traffic hits a dead stop.”
“Maybe the road is closed?” Brecken asks.
“Could be,” Josh says. “Maybe an accident?”
“It’s not even that bad,” I say.
“Can we take another route?” Harper asks. “I don’t want to be stuck in traffic until Christmas morning.”
“Maybe we should,” Josh says. “All that red probably means an accident, right?”
“I’ll start looking for an exit,” Harper says with a sigh.
“Let’s do the travel plaza,” Brecken says. “My phone says it’s eight miles up, just past a big bridge.”
Harper’s shoulders inch closer to her ears. “Bridge? Don’t bridges ice over?”
“They do,” I say, because even though the snow isn’t bad, it is sticking.
“Don’t worry,” Josh says. “We won’t let anything happen.”
Really? It’s a nice sentiment, but unless he’s going to call on some sort of mutant ice control powers, I think the roads are going to do their own thing.
“Whoa,” Kayla says.
Her voice is a jolt. She’s mostly slept since we’ve been in the car, so I’m surprised to see her upright, her slender hand pressed to her window. There’s something out there on the road that she’s looking at. A wreck, I think. Harper slows, and Brecken curses softly under his breath, but I can’t see what they’re watching.
I strain against my seat belt, trying to piece together the scene obscured by the snow and Kayla’s foggy window. Then the pieces come together. A sports car sits on its roof in the ditch. It’s like a flipped over turtle, four tires like curling legs, the dark underbelly exposed to our gaze. My stomach tightens.
I know what this is—it happens every year in Pennsylvania. A dozen snowflakes hit the road and all common sense pours directly out of drivers’ brains. Half of the people drive fifteen miles an hour and the other half weave in and out of lanes doing seventy-five.
The weavers are often the ones that end up like this, but Dad always told me the slowpokes cause it. As we pass, I see a dazed-looking twentysomething behind the car with a cell phone to his ear and—I’m betting—a newfound appreciation for seat belts and airbags. Another car is parked on the curb, a broad-shouldered man heading toward the car to assist.
“They seem okay,” Brecken says. “Just keep going to the exit.”
“That was crazy,” Kayla says. She’s bleary-eyed when she grins at me, still half asleep and seemingly delighted by the accident. It’s creepy.
“Ugh,” Harper says. “I still can’t see anything.”
Brecken reaches like he’s going to take the wheel. “Hey, stay in your lane already.”
“I can’t see my lane, okay?”
“It’s the windshield,” Josh says it at the same time I think it. “It’s getting worse.”
He’s right. Ice is building up on the wipers, so every arc across leaves a narrower section of clean glass. I have no idea how Harper can see the road at all through those tiny clear sections.
“Try the cleaner again,” Brecken says, pointing out the right control. Blue liquid dribbles weakly from the top. Clearly ice has clogged the sprayer.
“Shit.”
“Do the smacking trick,” I suggest. “You know, pull back the wiper blade and whap it against the glass.”
Brecken rolls down the windows, and the air is arctic. He does his wiper first, gripping the blade in his glove and pulling it back hard. It hits the glass with a perfect smack, but though snow sprays, it’s nowhere near clear enough.
“Okay, try to do mine,” Harper says. “I can’t see like this.”
“I can’t reach your window. And it barely worked on mine. We need to pull over.”
“No, we can do this.” Harper rolls down her window, and I cross my arms. The wind is a weapon. My coat might as well be made of lace.
Even twisting in her seat, Harper can’t reach the blade. “I don’t think I can.”
Brecken shakes his head. “Try again.”
“She’s not going to be able to do it,” Josh says simply. I shoot him a glare, but he shrugs. “Her arms are too short.”
He’s right—she’d have to stand up in her seat to reach it. But I hate that he said it when I’m sure she’s already stressed enough and painfully aware of the limitations of her reach.
“Just pull over,” Brecken says. “It’ll be okay. This will be easier if you can see.”
Josh leans forward then, straining against his seat belt to get closer to Harper. “He’s right. You can pull over. You can do this.”
No response.
Josh reaches over the seat, slow and hesitant. Then he pats her shoulder, once. Gently. “Harper? Trust Brecken. Let him tell you what to do. Just follow his directions. You can do it.”
“She definitely can,” Brecken says. “She’s killing it.”
“I don’t need directions.” Harper sounds nervous. Really nervous.
They keep encouraging her, but it’s part patronizing man and part fear, and it’s one hundred percent annoying as hell. There might be a sliver of kind intention, so I try to hold onto that instead of grinding my molars at the “follow directions” comment.
“Go right here,” Brecken says.
Harper nods and inches the wheel to the right until we’re stopped on the side of the road. She fiddles with controls and frowns, presses the wiper fluid button and the two beside it. “I don’t know how to stop them.”