Skid

Melanie can't tell what's worse: the storm, or the thin-ice tensity between herself and Dan. For long miles, the only sound in the beat-up Subaru has been the crunch of its worn treads over snow furrows. She minds those frozen lines. They're her only lane guides. They're a promise from a traveler who made it through.

Before them rises a hill, the road hemmed in by the dark, craggy rocks it's cut through. The rest of the world is white, even now, so close to midnight. Melanie tightens her grip on the steering wheel, revs a little. Fears the climb.

"Ease up, would you?" Dan gasps.

"I thought you wanted me to go faster." Her words snap. "I thought that's why we got off 95 in the first place." They're halfway up now. Are the tires slipping? Or is she going crazy?

"Yeah, it's all my fault, I get it."

She doesn't need to see his sneer to know it's happened. Usually she lets these small hurts melt away. Tonight, finally cresting the hill, the sting crystalizes in her stomach, mingles with the ache of her adrenaline. She glares at him. Takes her eyes off the white sameness before her, just for a second.

"You know, there's a reason people stay behind plows. It's actually because --"

And the tires skid, the car spins, her neck whips, the rock face slams, the trunk pops, airbags too. White white white.

And the world around is quiet, and she only has herself.