She pressed the ignition.
The ATV coughed.
Spluttered.
Then died.
We sat in silence.
She tried again.
Same result.
Her voice went high-pitched. “I knew this machine hated me.”
“It doesn’t hate you.”
“It does. It senses my emotional vulnerability.”
I leaned slightly forward, closer than I intended. “You flooded it.”
She froze. “I flooded it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a wilderness professional,” she whispered. “This is humiliating.”
“We will let it sit for a minute,” I assured her.
She groaned dramatically and flopped forward onto the handlebars. “This would never happen in the real world.”
“This is the real world.”
“No, it’s the humiliation world. Everything is backwards. Up is down. I’m functionally incompetent because my family borrowed a lumberjack for six months, and my self-confidence took a dive.”
“You’re not incompetent.”
“You didn’t see me this morning.”
I did see her, all flustered and anxious, adorable in a way she had no idea she was. I pushed that thought away immediately.
“Try it again,” I said.
She straightened, took a breath, and pressed start.
The engine sputtered to life.
She lifted her chin proudly. “I fixed it with my mind.”
I shook my head. “Of course.”
She revved the throttle. “Hold on.”
I did.
But not too tightly.
We drove down the narrow snow-packed trail toward the ridge. The early-morning light seeped through the trees in pale-blue streaks. The ATV bounced slightly on frozen ruts, and every now and then her shoulder brushed my chest through her heavy jacket.
