He is in even less of a mood to tolerate my sparkling wit than he was yesterday. "Snow's stopped. Road's passable. I'm driving you to town."
"Now?"
"Right fucking now."
He turns and walks away, leaving the door open.
I stare at the empty doorframe for a while. Then I stare at Wolf, who pads up to take up the space where Afon was just standing.
"He can't be serious," I say.
Wolf tilts his head.
I guess he's serious.
I find my boots by the fireplace, still damp from two days ago. My socks are crusty and stiff. My jacket, the cute Patagonia puffer I bought specifically for what I'd envisioned as a scenic autumnal hike, not a Bear Grylls survival situation, smells like wet dog and smoke. I pull it on anyway, because it's either that or knife-sharp nipples, and I'm not in any mood for that.
Afon is outside, scraping snow off a vehicle tucked away in a stand of trees out back. It's an ancient Ford Bronco, army green, with rust blooming across the wheel wells. I didn't notice it on my way in, though in my defense, I was a little preoccupied with the blunt force trauma to the head.
"Where was this hiding?" I ask, struggling down the porch steps. The cold air nips at my face and makes my eyes water.
"Under the tarp." He jerks his chin toward the side of the cabin where, sure enough, a blue tarp lies crumpled in the snow. "I keep it for supply runs."
"Supply runs? To where, the canned bean store?"
Wow, I really thought that would get a laugh. But it doesn't even get a snorted exhale, much less a smile. Tough crowd today.
I stand in the snow, shivering, looking all around me. The clearing is blinding white. The mountains rise around us, huge and enormous. Everything is very still and very bright and very final-feeling.
"Afon, before we get all hasty, can we just?—"
He rips open the passenger door and jerks a thumb at the seat. "Get in."
"Right, yes, that's what I'd like to discuss. I feel like we've gotten off on the wrong foot, so if I could have a moment to?—"
"Get in the damn truck, Caroline."
His voice is not cruel. That's what gets me. Cruelty I could argue with, cruelty I could fight. This is something worse: it's resolved. He has made his decision, and my voluntary participation is not required for what happens next. His manhandling of me onto the kitchen counter yesterday was proof of that. It'd make things easier if I go along with it, sure.
But it's not mandatory.
Wincing, I get in the truck.
The leather seat is cracked and patched with duct tape. I'm pretty sure this vehicle predates my existence on earth, because there's no discernibly recognizable technology. Is that acassette deck?!
I start to ask, then take one look at Afon as he climbs in on the driver's side and decide maybe that's not so wise.
He jams a key into the ignition and turns it hard. The engine coughs to life with a tubercular rattle that does not inspire confidence. Wolf jumps into the truck bed without being asked, settling down with his chin on his paws like he's done this a hundred times before.
We pull out of the clearing and onto a narrow dirt road—more of a suggestion than an actual road—that cuts through the trees. The Bronco bounces and lurches over ruts hidden beneath thesnow, and I grip the door handle with both hands to keep from being flung into the dashboard over and over again.
We drive in silence for ten bumpy minutes. Fifteen. As we slowly crawl down the mountain, I feel my sass diminishing and my hopelessness growing.
I came so far, and now, I'm leaving with nothing I wanted. In fact, I'm worse off than when I started. I have only a bum ankle and a goose egg on my forehead.
"You promised," I finally say, unable to help myself. "You said you'd tell me."
His eyes don't leave the road. "I know what I said."
