Trapped in the Tempest

Sometimes I slip into this haze behind the wheel that I’ve nicknamed the road coma. One second I’m vaguely aware of the drive, the next I snap back and realize whole chunks of highway have vanished from my memory. No landmarks, no radio songs, no stop signs—just a big fat nothing. A cold spike of panic always follows. What if I plowed into something back there? But then logic kicks in: I’d have felt the jolt, right? The sickening thud. The scream of brakes. Something. This time the return to reality hits harder. I blink against the whiteness and discover I’m crawling along a narrow, twisting mountain road buried under fresh snow. When I left the house the flakes were barely flirting with the windshield. Now they’re hammering down like they mean it. The GPS screen has gone suspiciously quiet, its little blue arrow aimed at what looks like the middle of absolute nowhere. Trees crowd in on both sides, heavy branches sagging under white weight. I swallow, throat tight. Caid swore this gadget was foolproof. Famous last words. I fish for my phone to call him and confess I’m officially lost, but the screen glares back with the SOS symbol only. Perfect. I toss it onto the passenger seat; it bounces once and drops to the floorboard. Leaning down to grab it, I tug the wheel without thinking. The car immediately decides it’s done cooperating. Tires lose their grip and we start sliding like we’re on black ice at a skating rink. Panic mode: full throttle. I yank the wheel the other way and stomp the brakes—exactly the wrong move. The world turns into a spinning white vortex. Snow streaks past in angry diagonals while the car pirouettes like a drunk ballerina. I can’t tell up from down, road from ditch, or whether I’m even facing the right direction anymore. We’re weightless, floating on the Cassian’s breath, until the tires finally bite something solid and we slam nose-first into a snowy embankment with a dull, undramatic crunch. My forehead kisses the steering wheel—more of a polite tap than a knockout blow. I sit there a second, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the pain or the explosion that never comes. When I finally peek, the car is just… stuck. Tilted slightly, tires whining uselessly in the powder. Not wrecked, not flaming, just embarrassingly immobile. Thank God for small mercies, I guess. Phone again. Still zero bars. I try to recall the last sign of life I might’ve passed during my mental blackout—house, gas station, anything—but it’s all blank. The posh hotel where my meeting is supposed to happen feels like it’s on another planet. My pulse kicks up. Lost. Stuck. No signal. Lost. Stuck. Breathe, Seraphine. Just breathe. A heavy knock on the window nearly launches me through the roof. I whip around, heart exploding. There’s a mountain of a man standing in the blizzard—black cowboy hat, long dark coat flapping in the wind, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses despite the gloom, cigarette dangling from his lips like he’s starring in his own gritty Western. He looks like Sasquatch decided to moonlight as a lumberjack. Holy hell. Serial killer in the snow. He raps again and cracks the door open before I can react. Cold air and fresh powder spill across my lap. I shrink back against the center console, trying to disappear into the upholstery. “Don’t come near me!” I yelp. My mind scrambles for a weapon. All I’ve got is a half-empty pack of orange Tic Tacs. Not exactly intimidating. “Easy, easy,” he says, voice low and surprisingly calm. “You alright? It looked like you hit your head.” Lady? He called me a lady? I touch my forehead anyway. There’s a tender spot, warm and sticky. I pull my fingers away—blood. Not a lot, but enough to send my brain into overdrive. “I cracked my skull!” I blurt. “It’s bleeding everywhere!” He actually chuckles, a deep rumble that somehow cuts through the wind. “It’s barely a scratch. Let me see.” Before I can protest, he leans in and brushes my hair aside with surprising gentleness. I bare my teeth like a cornered animal. “Get your head out of my car.” Still half-laughing, he drops into a crouch beside the open door, one arm resting casually on the frame like we’re chatting at a neighborhood barbecue instead of marooned in a ditch during a whiteout. Snow is already piling up on the brim of his hat. “So what brings you out this way?” he asks, as if we have all the time in the world. “My car is stuck!” I snap. “In case you missed the giant clue.” “I noticed.” Another grin flickers under the cigarette. “I meant before that. Where were you trying to get to?” “The Falls Inn.” He lets out a low whistle. “Darlin’, you are way off course. That place is fifty miles back the other direction. If you’d kept plowing through these woods you might’ve eventually reached it—maybe. GPS leads you astray?” Damn thing. I should’ve followed my gut instead of trusting that glowing traitor. He keeps talking while I stew. “—cabin’s a couple miles up the road. The Cassian's getting nasty. We can wait it out there. My truck’s parked just ahead. Saw you spin out and pull over quickly. You nearly took me with you.” A cabin. In the woods. With a stranger who looks like he stepped out of a thriller poster. Every horror movie I’ve ever seen flashes through my head. This is how it starts—helpful stranger, isolated setting, sudden blizzard. Next thing you know, you’re the cautionary tale. I grip the wheel tighter, mind racing. No signal, no other options in sight, and the snow is coming down harder by the second. Sasquatch waits, patient as the trees around us, flakes catching on his dark coat like stars. Part of me wants to scream. The other part—the cold, practical part—knows I might not have a choice.