Mick
The rain turns to soft, heavy mountain snow halfway up the ridge road.
It comes down in big, wet flakes that melt the second they hit the windshield of Hal Warden’s old truck, the yellow headlights cutting twin paths through the dark pine corridors. Beside me, Vera has her boots pulled up onto the bench seat, her knees tucked under the hem of her dark green sweater, her head resting back against the worn vinyl.