Chapter 2
Welcome to Nowhere
Thirty-Two Days Until I Can Go Back to Work
“This is you,” Gary, the guy Jamie sent to pick me up, grunts.
After a four-hour drive from Portland, we’ve just lurched to a stop in front of what looks like a glorified doghouse.
I yank off my headphones. “Uh, where’s the cabin?” My voice edges toward a pitch only dogs can hear.
“Down that way. You’ll need to use the snowmobile to get to any cabins off the main road this time of year.” He gestures at a metal beast beside his truck.
“I’ll just call an Uber!”
Gary laughs, a deep, hearty sound that makes me want to box his hairy ears. “Good luck with that. No fancy cabs or pizza delivery here. That’s summer stuff.”
“But I’ve never driven a snowmobile.”
“It’s easy. Been driving one since before I could spell my own name. Just turn the key. Right is gas, the brake is on both sides. Follow the yellow tags tied to the trees to reach Jamie’s place. It’s only a few miles. Twenty minutes tops.”
“But how am I supposed to get my stuff to the cabin?”
Gary jabs a finger at the rickety wooden sled attached to the snowmobile. “That.”
Jubs gives an irritated thump, as if she already knows I’m about to make a very bad decision.
I will myself to open my door. When I do, frosty air swirls around me, blowing my bob out of place.
“Welcome to Cranberry Hollow,” Gary says as I climb out of the truck and my designer wedges sink into the snow.
I was still drunk getting dressed this morning, obviously.
I yank my silver faux sheepskin coat tighter while I rummage through my purse for gloves.
Please, please, please—nope.
Just a crumpled Duane Reade receipt and an expired lip balm.
It takes me a full ten minutes to unload my suitcases from the trunk and stack them on the small sled till they resemble a precarious Jenga tower. Once I shut the trunk, Gary speeds off, leaving me stranded.
Maybe I should have talked to him on the drive over.
“At least you’re warm, Jubs.” Her beady black eyes stare up at me from her carrier as she nuzzles deeper into her blanket.
I can handle this. I am intelligent. I am capable. I am a board-certified veterinary surgeon.
I can absolutely look up how to ride a snowmobile.
Except there’s no service.
I refresh and check again.
Gary’s truck is now a speck in the distance. I refuse to panic.
“I didn’t become an expert surgeon in Manhattan, only to be defeated by a stupid snowmobile.”
It’s fine that I haven’t driven in nearly a decade. It should be like riding a bike. But the lie drops straight into my ribcage.
Fake it till I make it.
I analyze the tiny sled stacked high with my luggage, trying to figure out where to place Jubs’s carrier. I see a red canister and a box, and I remove them, so I have enough room for Jubs. I wedge her carrier into the freed-up space, ignoring the way my fingers burn from the cold.
The snowmobile’s keys dangle in the ignition. I swing a leg over, my leather pants squeaking in protest. I spot the yellow ribbons dangling from tree branches.
I grab the helmet, sentencing myself to helmet hair. So much for making a good first impression.
Okay. Right is gas. Right is gas.
I twist the throttle.
The machine lurches forward, nearly sending me flying into a tree. I yank the brakes hard.
“Sorry! I’ll be more careful!” I yell to Jubs, but she has already fainted.
At least one of us won’t have to remember today.
Inhaling, I ease onto the gas, creeping forward at a blazing six miles per hour. I hate to admit it, but it’s lovely. The snow’s untouched, and the trees are heavy with frost. The sun breaks through the branches, making me squint.
I push my bangs out of my face, spotting the next flag. “Come on, Joy. You’ve wrangled feral cats. You can handle this.”
The universe immediately punishes my optimism by putting a bump in my way. I hit it hard enough that I nearly bite off my tongue as the snowmobile fishtails. I picture Jubs flying through the air, my suitcases bursting open, and my pinot noir shattering across the tundra.
Miraculously, everything stays intact. My teeth chatter, but I keep going, now fueled by pure resentment toward Jamie. He didn’t mention this delightful part of the journey in his emails. No warning. No hospitality.
What if I get eaten by a polar bear?
After what feels like an eternity, a clearing appears and three buildings come into view: a massive log home, a cabin, and a barn with a painted reindeer mural on its large wooden doors.
To the left of the barn, real-live reindeer with antlers and hooves stand in a gated, snow-filled pasture, staring at me.
I stare back.
I think I vastly oversold myself.
The only thing I know about reindeer is that they can be catty bitches if one of them looks a little different from the rest—and that my nose is probably as red as Rudolph’s.
Just because Craigslist was good a decade ago for finding cheap rent in college does not mean I should have turned to it in my hour of need.
This is one hundred percent a nefarious underground meatpacking situation. I’m vegetarian, for fuck’s sake. Staying here means abandoning my morals.
My resolve to leave hardens the moment I turn to inspect my cabin further. The blue window trim from the photos is actually raw, blackened wood, and the porch railing looks like a beaver had a great time gnawing on it.
This would be a perfect time to cry. I’m overwhelmed. I may die. Jubilee may die.
I squeeze my eyes tight, but nothing happens.
I’ll try again later.
I fumble for my phone, but it’s at two percent battery with no signal.
Fuck.
Maybe I can drive the snowmobile back to Portland. I laugh at the thought. Jubs and I would turn into popsicles.
Jubilee rustles in her carrier as if to second the motion.
All plans of escaping vanish when I turn the key, and the gas gauge blinks red.
Naturally, it’s empty.
Why did I trust a man after a few emails and obviously staged photos?
I went to Harvard. I graduated from the best vet school in the country. I read. I use hand sanitizer. I keep my shoes on during flights, and I meditate. How did all that land me here, abandoned in the woods?
“Jubs, I’ll be right back.”
If I am going to get murdered, I may as well put up a fight.
I stomp toward the main house with my fists clenched. I have a whole bunch of rage and just one person I want to take it out on.
“Jamie Wilder!” I yell, taking the salted porch steps two at a time.
I pound on the door with one hand, then both, burning my frozen fingers.
I’m met with silence. I wait five seconds before slamming the doorbell five times in rapid succession.
I hear the chime behind the door, but there’s no movement.
I press my face to the window next to the door and peer through the glass. It’s pitch-black inside. The temperature out here has dropped a few degrees, and snow has started drifting from the sky. Panic pricks the back of my neck, and I bang on the door frantically.
“Open up, Jamie Wilder. If that is even your real name!” I say, shivering. “If you like watching women suffer, I swear to God, I will make you regret it. You have no idea what I can do with a scalpel.”
Still nothing.
In a last-ditch effort, I flip over the Happy Holidays welcome mat hoping for a key but am met with zilch.
I exhale hard, blowing air into my closed fists to keep them functioning.
Fine.
I stomp back toward the sad little shack I apparently have no choice but to break into. In those twenty paces of pure anger, I curse Jamie. I curse Craigslist and Parker. I curse the snow, wine, and my own stupidity.
Still muttering threats, I climb the dilapidated porch steps, determined to kick the door down.
But before my hand can touch the knob, my shoe hits a patch of ice, and my foot slips out from under me.
Instinctively, my arms pinwheel for balance, and I latch onto the railing for dear life just in time to hear a sharp, splintering crack before the railing gives out.
I land flat on my back on a frozen bush, blinking up at the gray sky while I gasp for air.
I’m about to move when I hear a low whoosh directly above me.
It’s a full sheet of snow, I realize just before it slides off the roof and buries me alive.