Chapter 5
“MAMA SAY, MAMA SAH, MAMA KOOSA!” Or Whatever the Hell That Michael Jackson Song Says
Max
Two more hours. That’s all I have left to drive.
It’s February, and Canada is still deep in winter’s grip.
The roads are clean and freshly salted, but everything around me is blanketed in white.
Pines stand tall and heavy with snow, their branches dusted like someone sifted powdered sugar over the whole country.
The mountains in the distance look like they were carved from ice, peaks capped in white so crisp it almost glows.
Canada’s wilderness stretches ahead of me like a full-blown nature documentary—regal, untouched, and quietly flexing.
It really is beautiful here. Peaceful.
Then, Timantha starts to weasel into my mind because I start to think it’s almost too peaceful.
Like…get-out-before-the-serial-killer-finds-you peaceful.
It’s getting dark, and I haven’t seen another car in ages. Or a gas station. Or a town. Did I miss an exit? A turn? A portal to Narnia?
I glance down at my phone to see the battery light on.
“Fuck my life!”
My phone’s battery will be dead soon and my charger is at the bottom of my suitcase.
Then, I look up just in time to almost die.
There’s something in the road. A massive, fur-covered, antler-wielding monster of a creature. I scream, swerve, and the car spins out like I’m auditioning for Fast & Furious: Ontario Drift. It comes to a violent, jerky stop in a ditch with a noise that likely isn’t covered by insurance.
And then I see it. Towering above my car. The elk.
This thing isn’t just big. It’s mythic. Biblical. It looks like a reindeer did CrossFit and took performance enhancing drugs for good measure. It stands over the hood of the car like it owns me now.
I scream and scramble for my phone and dial the first number that springs to mind. “Timantha! Help me!”
“Max?” Her voice is sharp. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did someone try to sex traffic you?!”
“Worse! I almost hit a big-ass moose elk thingy, spun into a ditch, and now the prehistoric beast is standing over my car like I’m dinner!”
“Huh? Are you hurt? Do you have a concussion?”
“Seeing as I’m talking to you and not drooling on myself, I’d say I probably don’t have a concussion.”
“Well, you called me instead of 911 or roadside assistance, so don’t get smart like that wasn’t a dumbass decision.”
I groan. “This is so dumb. It’s getting dark, I can’t see the road, I don’t know where I am—how am I supposed to give anyone directions?!”
“Funny thing, Max,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Technology has advanced. The authorities can now magically locate you via signals and wires inside your phone. Look it up, Dr. Computer Science.”
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 have no idea who 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 like north 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 the wrong space billionaire providing my cell service?”
“That’s correct.”
I fucking hate rich people!
“Ma’am. I just nearly died by elk.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Click.
I stare at my phone, furious. “I know you are lying to me!”
I look around at the darkening sky. Tears begin to fill my eyes and my glasses begin to fog.
I call Timantha back and she answers immediately. “Did they help you?”
“No! They said I’m too Musky for rescue!”
“Come again?”
“Apparently, my phone carrier’s satellites are banned here! I am stranded in Canada because of a white African named Elon freaking Musk!”
“You have got to be kidding me!” She yells.
“Not kidding. Not one bit.”
I’m ranting and trying to figure out what to do next when I hear another noise.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Something’s moving toward my car.
I freeze. “Tim…something’s coming.”
“What? What is it?”
“I think it’s a bear.”
“Oh my God.”
“I should’ve brought the pepper spray. Or the gun. Anastasia told me to pack it and I laughed. WHO NEEDS A GUN IN CANADA,” I said. Bitch, you do!
The bear gets closer.
“Tell my mom I love her. And Justine cannot have my Crash Steele dress she’s been begging for in the event of my untimely death!”
There’s a knock on my window and I scream so loud I scare myself.
“Ahhhhhhh! MAMA SAY, MAMA SAH, MAMA KOOSA!”. Or whatever the hell that Michael Jackson song says.
“Timantha, call for help!”