CHAPTER 1
VIENNA
Maybe moving to Vermontwasn’tsuch a great idea.
When I arrived a week ago, the snow-covered mountains and white-dusted trees filled me with a welcome burst of hope.
This could be a new start,I told myself as I made my way into town, smiling at the quaint storefronts and old-fashioned lampposts that lined the sidewalks. Shoppers in puffy coats and brightly-colored hats hurried from store to store, their breath puffing out in silvery clouds. While I waited for the single traffic light in the center of downtown to change, I watched two women dart across the street, pink-cheeked and laughing.
As I emerged from my car and took a deep breath of the crisp air, I immediately felt lighter. Worry lifted off my chest, allowing me to take a full breath for the first time in months.
I could live here,I thought; my pace slowing so I could get a better look at the bookstore I was passing. Inside, several people sat reading in squashy seats before a fireplace. White twinkle lights lined the shelves, and a large calico snoozed atop one of them.I could come here once a week and treat myself with a new book. Read in front of the fireplace, like these people are doing. Maybe I’ll even make friends with one of them.
Well, assuming everything went according to my hastily-arranged plan. But a week ago, success seemed promising.
Now?
I’m not so sure.
Maybe if I were in one of the houses I passed a quarter-mile back, snugged into the trees with their windows glowing faintly through the growing storm and whorls of smoke curling from their chimneys, it would.
Maybe if I were still at work, surrounded by the cheerful buzz of customers and the happy clink of silverware, instead of inching my way along a darkened road and squinting to see through the buffeting snow.
But I don’t live in one of those houses, and my shift ended half an hour ago. So there’s no other option than to venture into the storm.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as a gust of wind threatens to drag me off course. My tires slip on the snow coating the road, spinning for a second before regaining traction. My windshield turns to a blur of white, and I switch the wipers to double speed in hopes of clearing it.
A dull throb builds behind my eyes.
My right leg, which was already aching from hours spent on my feet, starts to cramp from working the brake.
Fear niggles at me, bringing with it reminders of terrible car crashes I’ve read about—spinouts on black ice, cars hurtling off cliffs, and massive pile-ups in whiteout conditions.
What if I end up as another statistic?
What if I never get the chance to build the life I’ve hoped for here, with weekly trips to the bookstore and a place to call my own and maybe even, one day, the life I’ve dreamed of?
What if I made it through everything back in New York only to perish on a deserted road in the Green Mountains?
“No,” I say, hoping that by hearing it out loud, it’ll add more credence. “It’s going to be fine. I just need to find the trailhead. It can’t be far from here.”
And besides,I add to myself.It’s not like this is the first time I’ve driven in the snow.Living in New York—Troy, more specifically—I’ve had plenty of experience driving in snowy conditions. This shouldn’t be any different.
Almost as if the weather wants to prove me wrong, another gust slams into the car. A frightened meep escapes as I fight to keep the tires steady. Despite the cold, sweat prickles along my back. Pain spears through my teeth and jaw.
Once I have the car under control, I steal a quickglance in the rearview mirror. Just as it’s been since I left town, the road behind me is empty.
I’m not sure if I’m surprised by that. On one hand, I’d think that Vermonters are used to this kind of weather. I imagine the locals scoffing at storm warnings and dire weather forecasts; confident in their skills after years of driving in the snow.
On the other hand, maybe the locals aren’t on the roads because they know better.
But it’s not like I had much of a choice. The first night I was in Bliss—the sleepy little New England town I’ve come to call home—I thought I’d spend the night in the far shadows of the grocery store parking lot. But not an hour in, I was woken by a police officer knocking on my window, sternly telling me I needed to leave.
“If you’ve been drinking,” the grizzled officer told me, “I’ll give you a ride home. Or if you’re looking for a place to stay, we have a motel in town that doesn’t charge much.” Almost apologetically, he added, “The closest shelter is in Montpelier, unfortunately. But I can give you directions.”
I was mortified.
And after I swore up and down that I hadn’t been drinking, that I was just tired after a long day on the road and thought I’d stop for a quick nap, I drove off with the promise of finding a real place to stay and no intention of actually keeping it.
