Chapter Text
“No fim, dá certo.” ~Fernando Sabino (In the end, it works.)
He heaved the door open against the wind, using his knee to support the bunglesome package he toted.
“Need some help?” a familiar voice called from behind the counter.
He shook his head. “I think I’ve got it. Thanks, Gabe.”
“I’d just about decided you weren’t going to make it in today,” Gabe said as he took the package and turned to weigh it. “That storm is bearing down on us now. Haven’t you been watching the news?”
He hadn’t been watching the news, but he’d been listening to it. He decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. “Yeah, I know. I just spent too long at the store.” He slid his card across the counter and nodded toward his shipping speed, but he didn’t really need to. Gabe knew the drill.
He signed the receipt with a mumbled, “Thanks, Gabe.”
“Drive carefully!” Gabe called as the door closed.
He sighed heavily as he climbed back into his van and wasted no time getting back on the road. Gabe was right. This was not good.
He had no one to blame but himself. He’d left a few minutes too late. He’d made a last minute stop at the bank that could have –and should have– waited. And he’d decided he just had to top off his gas tank even though he had well over a half a tank. Those small, almost trivial, decisions had come back to haunt him now, and he knew it.
He stole a quick glance at the furry passenger riding shotgun next to him. The windshield wipers slapped left and right in a steady rhythm, but they sounded different in the snow. The scratching of rubber over ice grated on his nerves, and the fact that the sun had already taken shelter when it wasn’t yet five o’clock completed his irritation.
“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” he said gruffly. The dog rested its chin on the door and gazed out the window, unconcerned. It had long since grown accustomed to the man’s curmudgeonly nature, if a thirty-one year old could be called curmudgeonly. He’d spent too many years living alone in an environment that, in winter at least, disliked people nearly as much as he did.
“You may as well make yourself at home, because I can’t go any faster in these conditions.”
By these conditions, he could have been referring to the steadily diminishing daylight. Or he might have meant the falling snow that clung to the windshield despite the wipers’ effort to clear it. Of course the snow and ice already on the ground would have been obstacle enough as he inched along at a speed that belied his eagerness to get home. Inside. Off the roads. Out of the weather. He was annoyed with himself for being caught out in it. He knew better. He’d lived in Aroostook County long enough, he certainly should know better. Thirty minutes out is not the same as thirty minutes back. Not this far out. Not in winter. And definitely not after sunset.
The dog let out a high-pitched whine.
“Don’t worry. We’re fine, boy,” the man said with all the confidence he didn’t feel. Apparently unwilling to be placated, the dog popped its furry head up from its resting place on the door, ears standing at attention, staring intently at something up ahead. The man glanced at his own tired eyes in the rear-view mirror and sighed as he raked a cold hand through his blonde hair which had, like the days themselves, darkened for winter.
“There’s no need to fuss,” he said. The dog’s anxiety seemed to add a second helping to his own, and that’s something he could do without. His dog, though, was of the independent-minded variety, much like the man himself, so it responded with an ear-piercing bark.
The man narrowed his eyes but didn’t take them off the road. He was about to launch into a lecture when the dog pawed at the dashboard and barked several more times. That’s when the man finally saw it.
“What the hell?” he asked, leaning forward, swiping ineffectually at the windshield with the sleeve of his coat. He squinted heavily as if it were his eyesight rather than low visibility that was making it hard to discern what he was looking at. “What the hell?”
He tried to convince himself that it was an animal of some sort, but his gut told him it wasn’t. It was too small to be a vehicle. When he was close enough to see that it was a person, what the hell was no longer sufficient.
“What the fuck?!” He sucked in a few gulps of air as he eased past the misadventurer and then onto the shoulder of the road. Once he’d shifted into park, he thumped his palm lightly against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
He didn’t know what to do. He was already working against the clock to arrive home safely himself. He didn’t have time for any additional diversions. Furthermore, he would do nearly anything to avoid human interaction, including moving to Aroostook County, Maine, one of the most sparsely populated areas in New England.
His eyes drifted slowly up to the rear-view mirror. Reluctantly, as if they were being forced to walk the plank. He blinked a few times in case he was merely having a small break with reality. But the figure continued to stagger forward. “Fuck,” he muttered as he grabbed the blanket he kept behind his seat for emergencies and climbed out of his van with a muttered, “Stay,” directed at his dog.
“Looks like you could use some help,” he called as he quickly approached the person, who he could now see was a boy. Possibly a young adult, but just as likely a teenager. A runaway, perhaps. When he was close enough, he draped the blanket over the boy’s shoulders. “I stopped to help you,” he said.
The boy did not look up as he took another harrowing step. The man could see now that he was in worse condition than he’d feared, and his fears had been nothing good. “Come on. Let’s get you in the van where it’s warm,” he said as he half-carried the boy over and helped him into the passenger seat, shooing his dog to the back.
He cranked the heat up as high as it would go and turned the vents toward the stranger as he silently ran through his options. The nearest police station was at least thirty miles in the wrong direction, and the closest hospital was even farther. The snow was becoming more problematic by the minute, and he needed to get off the roads. He needed to get them both off the roads.
“Where were you headed, kid?” he asked. But the boy’s teeth were chattering and his body was shivering violently, rendering him useless for even the most rudimentary conversation. “Okay. Listen. I live about twenty minutes in the direction you were headed. I’m going to take you there. We’ll charge your phone and then you can call someone. Or something. Okay?” He knew the kid wasn’t going to answer him, but he hoped that he was able to hear and understand. He’d set out with his dog to run errands, not to conduct a kidnapping. The stranger did not nod or acknowledge his words, but what else could he do but shift the van into drive and ease back onto the road? The curious dog worked its furry muzzle between the seats, sniffing the usurper’s raw, red hand. The boy startled slightly and looked down at the black nose that was sniffing its way along his arm.
“Don’t worry about him,” the man said soothingly. “That’s just Archie. He’s friendly.”