Snowbound

“Right this minute, solitude isn’t what I’m craving.”

He gave her a look that widened her eyes.

But the door into the kitchen swung open, and a

voice called, “Mr. Fallon? It sounds like the plow

stopped. Do you think they’ve gotten to your road?”

“I’m coming,” he called, then backed a couple of

steps from Fiona. Tearing his gaze from her was downright painful. He limped toward his room.

The boys were waiting impatiently when he emerged

in boots and shrugging on his parka. Gloves in the

pocket—yep. Polartec hat in the other—check.

Pros with the snowshoes, they made it up the hill

faster than John would have liked. By then, the plow had

reached the van and come to a stop, the blade a foot or

two from the bumper.

John greeted the men who emerged, recognizing

faces from last winter. “Glad you could make it.”

“Just sorry it took so long. Been a busy weekend,”

the bearded guy said.

“Heard even Portland got buried.”

“Six inches. Can you believe it? Damn near closed

down the city. Had the traffic slip-sliding away.”

John shook his head. “I can imagine.”

“Well.” The man surveyed the boys. “You three part

of the Willamette Prep group?”

They nodded. “Did we make the TV news?”

Hopper asked.

“Might’ve.” He chewed for a minute, then spat a

stream of brown tobacco juice. “Yeah, a couple of

groups from that Knowledge thing… What was it,

somethin’ like a football game? Anyway, a couple of

groups didn’t make it back.”

“A couple?” John knew the first thing Fiona would

ask. “Is the group from the other school okay?”

“Yeah, they were stuck up Government Camp way.”

He nodded roughly north, toward Mt. Hood. “That road

got plowed a while ago.”

Relieved, he nodded.

They turned their attention to the problem of getting

the van back on the road. Finally, Dieter got elected—

because he was skinny and capable—of lowering

himself into the soft snow and shinnying under the van

to wrap a chain around the axle. They dragged him

back out, clutching the end of the chain. Then, with the

snowplow pulling and the boys pushing, the van

bumped back onto the road.

It took a hell of a lot longer to turn it around. The

plow widened the road as much as possible. Then John

got behind the wheel and backed up, inched forward,

backed again, while everyone else pushed, until the

damn thing faced uphill.

Predictably the boys cheered and gave each other

high-fives. John felt branded as the cripple who hadn’t

been able to pull his weight. Telling himself none of the

boys had the skill to maneuver the vehicle under such

difficult conditions helped about as much as a skinny

bandage on a bone-deep gash. The truth was, he

couldn’t have been much use. His leg and hip wouldn’t

have stood up to the strain at the same time as his feet

were slipping in the snow.

Face it: he was a cripple.

The highway guys introduced themselves to the kids,

and everyone shook hands. John expected to be seeing

the two men regularly this winter. Not likely nature

would throw a temper tantrum like this in November

and then turn mild and easygoing come December and

January. John figured it would pay to be on good terms

with the guys who had to dig him out every time the

snow came down.

After some discussion, they backed the plow out to

the highway and John followed with the van so that they

could finish plowing his road down to the lodge. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get out with his SUV.

Time could be elastic; he knew that. For example,

getting stuck on an observation post during your tour

in Iraq. You’ve donned full combat gear and body

armor, made sure you have five hundred rounds of ammunition for the machine gun you’re carrying, then have to go stand or sit in full sun—120 degrees. Sweat

pouring down your face, soaking your uniform. Time

didn’t just crawl, it eked. What had to be half an hour

would pass, you’d look at your watch and see that the

hand had hardly moved at all.

In contrast, the next hour here and now sped by. He