Bill cringed as he veered onto Highway 2, clicking on the country radio station to calm his nerves. He was wailing along with Blake Shelton’s “I Don’t Wanna Be Lonely Tonight” when he reached Essex. Almost to Marias Pass, the Snow Slip Inn loomed ahead, and Bill stopped singing. His palms were sweating as he turned off the radio.
The log inn looked exactly the same as it had when he’d carried his injured teammates to safety there eleven years ago. He held his breath as he drove past, trying to look straight ahead up the highway, but the Snow Slip Inn tugged at his gaze, a melancholy magnet pulling him backward.
As he drove past the curve where The Accident had happened, a sinking sensation overpowered his gut, a gravestone descending into his bowels. The repulsive smell of burning flesh
