"Maybe," I admitted. "But he needs to feel like a normal kid sometimes."
"Normal kids don't have to worry about—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Let's just go."
Brad's SUV was a military-grade fortress on wheels—heated seats, advanced climate control, emergency supplies that would make a prepper proud. He'd remote-started it twenty minutes ago, ensuring the interior was warm before Finn entered.
The buried roads stretched before us like white tunnels carved between snow walls. Brad drove with intense focus, hands gripping the wheel, constantly checking mirrors and monitoring Finn in the rearview. The city's attempts at plowing had created narrow passages barely wide enough for one vehicle, forcing creative navigation when meeting oncoming traffic.
"It's like driving through a snow globe," Finn observed from the backseat, face pressed to the window despite Brad's repeated reminders to sit back.
"Buddy, please sit—"
That's when the engine coughed. Not a polite clearing-throat cough—a wet, tubercular hack that made my stomach drop.
"What was that?" I tried to keep my voice casual for Finn's sake.
Brad's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. The engine coughed again, then died completely. We rolled to a stop in the middle of the snow-packed road, steam beginning to rise from under the hood.
"No." Brad turned the key. Nothing. Again. A weak turnover, then silence. "No, no, no."
"Dad?" Finn's voice had gone small.
"It's okay, buddy. Just a little engine trouble." Brad's calm tone didn't match the panic in his eyes. "How's your breathing?"
"Fine, but it's getting cold."
It was. Without the engine, the heater had stopped, and the mountain air was already seeping through the windows' seals. Brad grabbed his phone—no signal. Mine showed one bar that flickered to none as I watched.
"I'm going to check the engine," Brad said. He quickly got out of the car and popped the hood, disappearing into the steam.
"Hey, Finn," I said, turning in my seat. "Want to play Twenty Questions?"
"Okay." He pulled his scarf higher. "But Dad's scared."
"What makes you say that?"
"He does this thing with his jaw when he's scared. Like when I had to stay overnight at the hospital last year." His eyes met mine, too knowing for seven years old. "Like when the machine started beeping and all the nurses came running."
This seven-year-old's emotional intelligence never ceased to amaze me. "He just wants to keep you safe."
"I know. But sometimes I wish he'd let bad things maybe happen instead of being scared all the time." He coughed—soft, but enough to make my chest tighten. "Being scared doesn't stop bad things."
Before I could respond, Brad yanked the passenger door open. "Battery connection's loose, but there might be a coolantleak too. I need to—" He noticed Finn watching and forced a smile. "Just need to tighten a few things."
For fifteen agonizing minutes, Brad worked under the hood while I kept Finn distracted with word games and silly stories. The windows fogged from our breath, and I could see Finn starting to shiver despite his layers. Brad's muffled cursing drifted through the hood gap.
"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" I asked Finn for the dozenth time.
"Animal," he said, then coughed slightly.
My heart rate spiked, but I kept my voice steady. "Does it have four legs?"
"Yeah." Another small cough.
Brad must have heard because he slammed the hood and dove back into the driver's seat, frantically turning the key. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Then—miraculously—the engine turned over.
"Thank God," Brad breathed, then louder: "Okay! We're good. Everyone okay?"
