“Hmm,” I reply when I find myself unable to muster the energy required for anotherha-ha. I take my phone out of my pocket again and open the weather app. It takes a while to load because, in truth, there are a few outstanding updates. I don’t mention it to Branson, choosing instead to check my fingers for hangnails. When the app finally opens, it’s not working.
Ugh. The goddamn middle of nowhere. Nothing works this far from civilization.
Instead of a five-day forecast, the bloody app is showing the weather for the same day over and over.
Wait.
Oh God.
No!
“A blizzard!?” My voice has a screechy, unhinged quality to it that I don’t like at all.
“Yeah, a whiteout.”
He looks nonplussed about the situation, and that buoys me. It’s one night. How bad can it be? He’s Jensen’s brother. He’s known to me. It’s not like he’s going to drag me off by the hair or anything.
It’ll be fine.
“Fine,” I say with a very nonchalant wave. “That’s absolutelyfine. I’ll just have to, uh,be heretomorrow, and I’ll head home the day after. I mean, how long does it actually snow for during a whiteout? Four or five hours…a day, at most?”
Branson’s expression is a straight line that gives me the impression I’ve got it very, very wrong. “It’s forecast to be a bad storm. Worst one we’ve had in years. It’s going to come down on and off for the next three days.”
“Three days!?”The unhinged quality is back, and this time with a lot more vengeance.
He plants a know-it-all hand on his hip. “That’s the least of your problems.”
“The least of my problems,” I parrot back.
“Yeah, the biggest issue you’re gonna have is the bridge.”
“The bridge?”
“Jameson Bridge. You crossed it on your way up here.”
I did cross it. It was old and narrow and hardly looked fit to bear the weight of the vehicle. I remember because Bill swore viciously as he navigated it.
“W-what’s wrong with the bridge?” I ask weakly.
“It’s low-lying,” he explains with an unbothered shrug. “It gets iced over in inclement weather. Takes a while to thaw.”
With that, he heads to the fireplace, arranges a stack of kindling and logs with the kind of expertise typically exhibited by cavemen, and lights the fire. I flop down on the sofa as flames flicker to life. I lace my fingers together and place them neatly on my lap, looking steadfastly at my hands until I’m able to summon the courage required to ask my next question.
“How long is a while?” I say when I can.
He looks back at me, tilting his head from side to side, bunching the corner of his lips to one side as he does it. “’Bout a week. Maybe more.”
Thank God I’m sitting down, that’s all I can say. If I weren’t, my legs would have given out for sure.
2
Lucien
“Threedaysplus’bouta week,” I say numbly. “But, but, that’s ten days.”
“Give or take,” Branson agrees. “Maybe more.”
“Maybe more?”My voice cracks and spikes by an octave. An attempt to correct sees me spluttering and starting to cough.
