I should feel ashamed, given the three tech certifications and the master’s degree in computer science I have from North Kensington University. But I’m in a ditch, under moose surveillance. I’m allowed to be stupid.
The elk or moose, or government experiment gone rogue finally turns and struts off like it has better places to be.
I try the ignition. Nothing. Not even a pathetic click. Just the eerie whisper of wind through trees and the distant sound of my dignity slipping away.
This isn’t sex-trafficker-in-a-white-van territory. This is serial-killer-in-a-cabin-who-makes-you-run-through-the-woods-barefoot-while-he-hunts-you-for-sport territory.
“Don’t make fun of me right now, Tim!” I snap, clutching the steering wheel.
“Fine,” she sighs. “Call roadside assistance. See what they can do.”
“Great idea,” I say, yanking open the glove compartment. I dig through insurance cards and a sticky pen that may or may not be leaking.
Nothing.
“It’s not here!” I shriek, panic rising in my throat.
“What’s not there?”
“The owner’s manual! The roadside assistance info! It’s gone! I haveno ideawho to call!”
“Can’t you just Google it?”
I blink. Right. Duh. “Right. Yes. Good. You’re so smart.”
I open the browser on my phone and start typing. “Okay, I think I found a place. Let me call them and I’ll ring you back.”
I hang up and dial the number.
Ring. Ring.
“Thank you for calling Northern Star Auto Assist,” a woman answers sweetly.Ah,I think smugly.Told you Canadians were nice.
“Hi! Yes! My car stalled on the side of the road. I think I hit—or almost hit—an elk, and I spun into a ditch. I need a tow, but I don’t know where I am!”
“Sure thing, Miss. Let me just check if I can locate your phone.”
A beat of silence. I hold my breath. Please find me. Please find me. Please don’t make me explain where I am using tree landmarks or with big words likenorth or south.
“Hmmm,” she hums, confused. “Are you calling from an American phone line?”
“Yes?” I answer, suddenly suspicious.
Another pause. Then her voice shifts—no more warm hug. Now it’s straight-up customer service Karen.
“Unfortunately, we’re unable to track your location. You appear to be using an Elon Musk satellite carrier, is that correct?”
“I—I guess? I mean, yeah? I think so. It came with the phone plan. Why?”
“There’s a ban on his technology in Canada. We can’t access your signal.”
I blink. “Wait. So you’re telling me…I’m stranded in a ditch in the middle of a Canadian forest…because I have thewrongspace billionaire providing my cell service?”
“That’s correct.”
I fuckinghaterich people!
“Ma’am. I just nearly died by elk.”
