Instead, I headed out of town in search of a remote, wooded area to spend the rest of the night. That’s when I found the trailhead north of Bliss, with a smallparking lot that isn’t visible from the road. Is it the ideal place to stay? Of course not. I’m sleeping in my car, after all. But it’s secluded and hopefully off the normal patrol route of the town police.
Oh, and serial killers who lurk in the woods waiting for innocent victims. Hopefully, I can avoid them, too.
Although, would any serial killers be out tonight? Or would they be warm and comfortable at home, sitting by a cozy fire and planning for their next grisly murder once the weather is better?
Or… maybe the storm is the perfect cover.
I can almost see him—a black-clad killer on cross-country skis, moving swiftly and silently among the shadowed trees, a knife glinting dully in his hand, or worse yet, the dark stock of a rifle. He’d be nearly invisible in the swirling snow, or possibly mistaken for wildlife. Then he’d find an unlocked back door and creep inside, his intention set on murdering the sleeping victims within.
Or he’d find a stupid woman sleeping in her car in the middle of a snowstorm. And he wouldn’t bother trying to unlock the door. He’d just shoot me right through the window.
I give my head a quick shake to clear the gruesome image away. “Worry about driving,” I scold myself. “Not imaginary serial killers who have better things to do than search for victims in the middle of a Nor’easter.”
Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds before releasing it. Then I do it again. Back when things started to get really bad, I downloaded a freemeditation app with guided breathing exercises that are supposed to help you de-stress. I wouldn’t say the exercises were totally effective—they didn’t exactly erase the reason I was stressed to begin with—but they helped a little. And right now, I can use all the help I can get.
With the wind whipping the snow into whorls of white, it’s hard to see much of anything aside from the twin beams of my headlights. Thankfully, the road is lined with trees on either side and not a cliff’s edge I could accidentally drive right off of.
How much further to the trailhead?A glance at the clock tells me it’s been eleven minutes since I left work, which, on a normal day, would have been twice as much time as I needed. I wish I’d thought to pull up the directions on my phone, but back in the safety of the restaurant parking lot, it didn’t seem necessary. The turnoff is only three miles outside town, after all, and marked with a distinctive wooden sign. Surely I’d spot it, snowstorm or not.
Or maybe I drove right past it.
Maybe I’m headed north into a swath of nothing.
Maybe I’ll come upon one of those deadly cliffs, and the wind will blow me right off it.
Or maybe my car will run out of gas and I’ll end up lost in the middle of the mountains.
My jaw clenches. My muscles are a mass of knotted rubber bands. Anxiety bands around my chest.
Before moving here, I would have said I’m comfortable driving in the snow. But it’s clear my perception of winter driving wasn’t the same as this. Back in Troy,where I lived for the last few years, the roads were cleared quickly. The snow turned dingy gray only hours after falling. There were always cars around, even in the worst of storms. Even when I found myself caught in bad weather, I was never alone.
Not like this.
Not the sole car on a deserted road, with only my imagination for company.
Friendless.
No family worrying about me.
No home to come back to.
Everything I own is right here, in my nine-year-old Hyundai. And the only home I own is one with four wheels.
How did it come to this?I ask myself for the umpteenth time. I had a plan. A real one, with college courses and savings and a decent-paying job I’d keep until I got my degree. I had my life outlined years in advance. I took pride in how neatly everything was laid out.
But I know how it happened.
One wrong step. That’s all it took.
And now I’m alone in the eerie gray, hoping I can find the turnoff for the trailhead so I can have a place to stay for the night, not even letting myself contemplate that my layers of clothing and blankets won’t be enough to keep me from freezing.
Forcing the new unwelcome thoughts back—lovely, now I’m not only worried about cliffs and serial killers, but freezing to death, as well—I squint through the windshield at the blur of white ahead of me. I flick onmy high beams, but it doesn’t help. The rapidly falling snow coats the pines that line the road, making them blend in with everything else.
“Crap,” I mutter. “Where is the stupid turnoff?”
Maybe you should turn around,a quiet voice of logic suggests.Go back to the restaurant. Take your chances parking in the lot there. At least there aren’t deadly cliffs or?—
A spot of color shoots onto the road, dark against the wall of white.
