Myra
Tony’s truck was a beast, sitting high above the drifts, its tires clawing through the slush with a mechanical arrogance my small car never could have managed. But even with four-wheel drive, the world was a whiteout of hostile intent.
I pulled into the only gas station with its lights flickering—a lonely island in the frozen dark. I didn't just fill the truck; I grabbed a heavy plastic jerrycan from the display rack, ignoring the exorbitant price. My hands shook as I stood in the biting wind, the diesel pump clicking rhythmically, a sluggish trickle of fuel that felt as stuck as I was.
Twelve gallons for the generator. Twelve gallons of borrowed time.
By the time I reached the Happy Pines nursing home, I was vibrating—not just from the cold, but from the sheer weight of the "fix"
