Page 14 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It starts as a drizzle. Annoying. Manageable.

Then the sky bruises purple-black, and the rain comes down in sheets.

By then, I’m close.

I’m in Woodhaven, and I find the mountain.

I start to climb the roads.

Lightning forks across the horizon, too close, too bright, and the thunder hits a beat later—deep and angry, like the world is warning me to turn around.

My navigation recalculates.

Then recalculates again.

A road closure sign flashes by in the storm, half-hidden, and I’m already committed to a detour.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Okay. It’s fine. It’s just rain.”

Except it isn’t.

It’s mud.

It’s darkness.

It’s a mountain road that looks like it was carved into the side of the world by someone with a grudge.

Trees loom. The phone signal disappears.

The Tesla’s screen goes from helpful to smug as it tells me—calmly, politely—that charging options are limited.

Of course they are.

My battery percentage ticks down like a countdown timer in a horror movie.

Twenty percent.

Fifteen.

Ten.

“This is so stupid,” I whisper, but I keep going, because turning around feels like admitting defeat, and I’m not ready to do that today.

Then the tires hit a slick patch of mud, and the car fishtails—just a little.

Enough to send adrenaline screaming through my veins.

I slam the brakes.

The Tesla corrects, but the road doesn’t care.

The rain pounds harder. The wind whips.

Another crack of thunder shakes the whole world.

And then—like the universe has decided it’s done humoring me—my car gives a soft, devastating chime.