The green dashboard lights of the old logging truck flickered against the heavy frost coating the windshield, casting a sickly, emerald glow across the inside of the leather cab. Outside, Manhattan was disappearing into a blinding wall of white. The frozen dark of the interstate stretched out before us like a long, concrete runway into the unknown, the heavy diesel engine roaring and shaking the floorboards beneath my bare, bleeding feet.
Toby lay across my lap, his small body wrapped in three layers of greasy canvas blankets Clara had dragged from the storage box behind the seats. His breathing was heavy, a slow, wet rattle remaining in his chest from the seizure, but his skin was finally losing that terrifying, bluish tint of death. His little fingers were locked tightly around the hem
