Chapter 1 #2
Maybe you should turn around, a quiet voice of logic suggests. Go back to the restaurant. Take your chances parking in the lot there. At least there aren’t deadly cliffs or—
A spot of color shoots onto the road, dark against the wall of white.
Instinctively, my foot slams on the brake. Which I know you’re not supposed to do when it’s snowing. But something’s out—
The tires skid, sending me into a spin.
My heart leaps to my throat.
My life flashes before my eyes.
Then the advice of Bob, my last foster father and the one I liked most, comes back to me.
“Steer into the spin,” he explained as he calmly maneuvered his truck around an icy corner. “Don’t panic. Don’t slam on the brakes.”
Too late.
“The car is going to go where it wants,” he explained. “Just work with it. And as soon as you get control back, get to safety.”
It’s easier said than done. But the alternative—crashing into a line of towering trees—isn’t appealing. So I grit my teeth and do as Bob said, praying silently to anyone listening for mercy.
After a few breathless seconds, the car stops spinning. Feeling nauseous, I pull off the road and just sit, hands locked on the wheel, my heart thundering so hard I can hear it.
“Crap,” I whisper. “Oh, crap.”
As my pulse starts to slow, I’m reminded of the reason I slammed on the brakes to begin with. The color. The dark shape. The movement on an otherwise empty road.
A deer, perhaps? Lucky then that I stopped, or my car could have been badly damaged. I could have been hurt. Without a car or able limbs, I’d really be in trouble.
Peering through the windshield, I search the road for a deer or maybe even a bear—they live around here, one of my new coworkers informed me cheerfully, as if having bears around was no big deal. But I don’t see anything.
A tree branch, then? Fallen from the weight of the snow collecting on it? Or maybe my overactive imagination conjuring visions?
But on a second sweep of the road, I spot movement again.
The shape is small; smaller than any deer I’ve seen. And it’s dark brown, almost black. As it moves, something swishes behind it, almost like a small flag.
Something has me lowering my window to get a better look.
I’m not sure why. But there’s just something familiar about it.
Then the shape turns. And in a flash of recognition, I realize what it is.
Not a deer. Not a bear. Not a figment of my imagination.
It’s a dog. And I think he’s as alone as I am.
For a moment, I hesitate, caught between reason and instinct. Rationally, I know I should stay in my car. I should drive back to Bliss and find someplace to hunker down for the night.
But I’ve always loved dogs. Always wanted one, though I didn’t have the time or space for it. And it’s part of my dream to have one, one day.
Not that I think I’m going to keep this dog. But how can I leave him alone in the storm, and on a road no less, where it’s likely he could be killed?
I can’t. That’s the answer. My own safety be damned.
That’s why I shift the car into park, flip on the hazards, and loop my purse crosswise over my chest. Then I pull up my hood, tug on my mittens, and pull my collar over my chin.
With a deep breath, I push the door open and dart out into the whipping snow.
The wind catches the door and yanks it from my hand, slamming it shut behind me.
It’s tough to call out to the dog without it sounding like I’m shouting, but I try my best to keep my tone friendly and comforting. “Hey, buddy,” I croon as I slowly approach the dog, who’s now standing in the center of the road. “Come here, buddy. It’s okay. Want a treat?”
Crap. Of course I left the little food I have back in the car. But if he gets close enough, maybe I can bribe him inside with some chips or part of the sandwich I got from work.
As the dog stares at me, I move closer, my hands low and open. “Good boy,” I tell him. “You’re such a good boy. Or girl,” I amend. “You’re a good dog. Such a good dog. I bet you’re lost, aren’t you? Why don’t you come here, and I can find your owner. Get you home.”
I take a few more steps towards the dog, cheered that he hasn’t run away yet. I keep crooning the same things over and over, telling him—or her—how good they are and all the nice things they’ll get if they come with me.
I’m less than ten feet from the dog when headlights illuminate the road from behind me.
At the crunch of tires on snow, the dog skitters back.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You’re okay.”
A car door slams shut.
My heart skips a beat.
Not a serial killer. It can’t be.
“What are you doing?” someone shouts. No, not someone. A man with a deep, rumbling voice.
A serial killer’s voice?
No. Don’t be ridiculous.
Slamming the metaphorical door shut on the idea, I spin around to face him, nearly losing my balance before catching myself. “I’m trying to get the dog,” I shout back. “And you’re not helping!”
The man—a very tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark coat that’s quickly turning white from the snow—hurries towards me. “Get back in your car,” he replies. His tone is firm with authority. “Before you end up getting hurt out here.”
“The dog,” I persist. Flicking a glance over my shoulder, I locate the dog, still in the middle of the road, but further away than before. “He’s in trouble. Lost. He needs help.”
The man closes the distance between us in several long strides. His features are like stone. Snowflakes dust the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His eyes are dark and intense as he looks at me. “Get back in your car,” he repeats. “This isn’t safe. You’re going to end up hit by a damn car.”
Stubborn determination flares hot. “So will the dog,” I fire back. “I’m not leaving him alone out here. And I might have gotten him already if you weren’t distracting me.”
As he glares at me, I wonder if he really might be a serial killer. A serial killer I just provoked by snapping at him.
Then a moment later, he chuckles. It’s a dry, almost scratchy laugh, like he hasn’t made the sound in years. “Fair point,” he concedes.
I’m ready to argue, so his acquiescence throws me off. “What?”
“If you’re insistent on getting the damn dog, I’ll help you. Since I’m already covered in snow.”
“You didn’t have to get out of your car,” I point out.
“I thought someone was hurt,” he shoots back. “While I might not have wanted to stop, I’m not about to drive past the scene of an accident, either.”
“Would a serial killer stop to help?” I muse. “Or would he take it as an opportunity?”
He frowns at me. “Are you calling me a serial killer?”
My face flames so hot, I’m surprised all the snow doesn’t melt. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I was just driving and thinking about serial killers and whether they would be out in a storm like this or if they’d be at home, plotting by the fire—”
I clamp my mouth shut. Then I scan the road, searching for a convenient hole to throw myself into.
His mouth twitches. “Do you think about serial killers often?”
“Only when I’m driving on a deserted road in the middle of a snowstorm.”
Or sleeping alone in my car in the middle of a forest. But I’m not mentioning that part.
“Well,” he says after a brief pause. “I’m not a serial killer. Although I suppose serial killers would say that, wouldn’t they?”
“Not unless they wanted to mess with their victim,” I reply. “If they wanted to toy with them. Let them know what’s coming.”
“True.” His gaze moves over my shoulder before returning to me. “Well. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”
I shiver as my adrenaline fades and the cold seeps into me. “So are you going to help me catch the dog?”
He stares at me. Then he lifts his chin. “Yes. Sooner we get the damn dog, the sooner I can get back home.”
Not exactly a pleasant answer, but given the circumstances, I get it. This guy probably has a nice house to get back to, with a giant fireplace stocked with piles of logs that, given the size of his arms, I can easily picture him chopping himself.
I turn to look at the dog, who’s eyeing both of us with suspicion. “Do you want to get out of the snow?” I ask him. “Want a treat? Some food? Come here, buddy. We can help you.”
“Do you have anything to use as a leash?” the man asks. “A scarf? Belt?”
“Crap.” I glance over at my car, now parked on the opposite road from his. “In my car I do. But if I leave…” Casting my mind around for ideas, I land on something.
Unclipping my strap from my purse, I shove the purse at him. “Hold this. I’ll use the strap as a leash.”
Is it stupid to hand over my purse to a complete stranger? Maybe. But then again, I’m broke. The best he’ll get is a cancelled credit card and a ten-dollar bill.
He blinks at me. Then he takes the strap instead of my purse. “I’ll put it on the dog,” he explains. “In case it tries to bite. You talk to him, keep him distracted. I’ll circle behind him to get the leash on.”
I’m tempted to insist on catching the dog myself. After all, I’m the one who stopped for him. I’m the one he seems to like better. But is it worth arguing when this man—
“What’s your name?” I blurt.
“My name?” he asks, like it’s a complicated question.
“Yes. I’m Vienna,” I say as I hold out one mittened hand. “And you are?”
After a beat, his much larger hand encases mine. Despite the layers between us, a spark of heat warms my skin. “Caleb,” he replies. “Now. Let’s get this dog already.”
Just as Caleb suggested, I talk to the dog while Caleb works his way around him. I’m not sure how much the dog can understand, given that my teeth are audibly chattering and the wind is picking up speed. But something in my tone must reassure him.
As soon as Caleb slips the makeshift leash around the dog’s neck, I let out a tiny cheer of victory. Then I hurry over to meet them, feeling more accomplished than I have in months. “You did it,” I tell Caleb. “Now he’ll be safe.”
“You did most of it,” Caleb corrects. His black-gloved hand brushes the top of the dog’s head. “I only helped at the end.”
“Still.” I adjust my purse under my arm. “Thank you. I don’t—-”
Once again, headlights brighten the road. But they’re much more intense than Caleb’s were.
“Shit,” Caleb curses. “Do you have—” He turns towards the headlights approaching us.
In profile, his face tightens with alarm.
A beat later, my gaze follows his.
It’s not a car that’s coming. Or a pickup truck, like Caleb’s. It’s a tractor-trailer. And it’s not slowing down.
“Come on.” Urgency roughens Caleb’s voice. He grabs my arm and starts dragging me towards the side of the road.
For a second, I can’t move. My muscles don’t want to work.
“Vienna,” he snaps. “Come on!”
And just like that, my body unfreezes.
A horn blares as I race across the snowy road, praying I don’t slip and get run over.
Caleb’s hand is a vise around my arm, dragging me forward.
The dog is loping along with us, like he’s out for a pleasant walk instead of a mad dash for safety.
The horn blares again.
All my dreams—family, a house, a dog, the job I’ve wanted since middle school—flash by in an instant.
And then we make it to the side of the road.
I almost stop at the edge of it, but Caleb drags me further into the drifts. “Gotta get clear,” he grits. “Keep going.”
So we do.
As the snow comes up knee-deep, the heavy downshift of gears adds to the blaring horn.
Caleb’s arm comes around me when I stumble, pulling me up again.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “I won’t let you fall.”
And strangely, though we only just met, I believe him.
Just as we’re approaching the treeline, tires screech.
This is it, a terrified voice shouts in my head. It’s all over. You survived once. You won’t be that lucky again.
My body braces for impact. For the inevitable agony.
Then.
There’s a terrible sound of tearing metal and shattering glass.
A second horn blares as if it’s in pain.
Caleb yanks me behind him, clasping me to his body with one arm. “Fuck!” he hisses. “Fuck.”
As the relief of not being dead subsides, fear replaces it.
What was that sound?
No, I know what it was. But whose car was it?
Then I peer around Caleb’s arm, and I know.
It was my car.
My shelter.
Now crumpled against the large grill of the tractor-trailer, the entire front end smashed into it.
A low moan works its way up my throat.
Tears spring to my eyes. My nose burns.
The dog whines and butts my leg with his head.
Caleb turns to me with a regretful expression. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
It takes a second to speak past the lump in my throat. “My car.” One hazard is still blinking weakly. “The hazard lights. I left them on…”
“The snow,” he replies. “The driver… Shit.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll call 911.”
“Fuck!” the driver yells as he scrambles from the cab and jogs over to us, looking pissed off but unhurt. “Why the fuck was that car just parked there? In the middle of a damn storm? What the fu—”
“Shut up,” Caleb snaps. There’s a threat in his voice that makes the driver stop talking.
“Hey,” Caleb adds in a gentler tone. “Vienna. Are you okay?”
No, I want to say. My car is wrecked. Now I’m going to have to deal with the police and the insurance company and who knows when I’ll finally have another car again.
In the meantime, where the heck am I supposed to live?
A tent in the woods? The shelter in Montpelier?
But then how will I get to my job in Bliss?
But I don’t say any of those things. Not to this gruff but kind man I just met. Instead, I just nod. “I’m okay.”