I kill the engine, restart it. The tires spin uselessly. I try again, gentler, rocking forward and back. No good. I’m wedged in deep.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Don’t do this to me.”
The dashboard clock blinks 4:27 p.m. The light’s already fading.
I grab my phone—one bar, then none.
Perfect.
I toss it onto the seat and force myself to breathe.
For a few minutes I just sit there, gripping the wheel, trying to think.
The snow piles higher against the windows, muting everything, turning the world into a dim blue blur.
The car feels smaller with every passing minute.
I crack the door open, just enough to look out.
Wind slams into me, hurling snow into the gap.
I can barely make out the drop where the car slid off—maybe two feet, maybe three—but the angle is steep enough that I’m not getting back up onto the road without help.
A wave of panic rolls through me.
I shut the door quickly, sealing myself back into the too-warm cabin.
My breath fogs the glass.
The headlights shine at a crooked angle into the storm, lighting the flakes in frantic bursts.
I wrap my scarf tighter, more for comfort than warmth.
The heater hums on, but it doesn’t calm me.
It just feels like an engine ticking down a clock I can’t see.
I stare out at the white void, listening to the wind sweep across the trees.
No cars.
No people.
Nothing but the storm.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels stretched thin.
I try to think of what you’re supposed to do in situations like this, but everything I know feels flimsy and far away.
Panic keeps climbing my throat.
I grip the blanket from the back seat and pull it around me—not because I’m cold, but because I need something to hold onto.
For the first time since skidding off the road, the truth lands:
I’m alone out here.
And if no one drives by, I’m not getting out.
