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Could I do something other than work every single day of my life in order to avoid my own problems? Sure could. But I’m not going to. It’s worked so far for me.
I have a cabin in the woods that I use for the rare times that I don’t have work, or I don’t have anything going on with the various volunteer work that I do, but I haven’t been back there in…honestly, I don’t remember how long. The last time I was there was before the start of winter, and that was only to close it up before the first snowfall.
“Fuck. Fine.” I’m still pouting. That’s not going to change any time soon.
Mentally I put together a list of things that I need in order to take time off. It’s barely spring—winter still has us in its icy end-of-season grip—so the cabin in the mountains is least likely to drive me batshit stir-crazy. If I hustle, I should be able to throw most of what I need together, then make a quick trip to the grocery store, which will set me up to be at the cabin by tonight.
That’s assuming the pain meds they gave me don’t wear off before then.
Most people would look at sixty stitches as a good reason to take a vacation. Or be thankful that they escaped a near disaster with a bear on a trail run. I’m not one of them.
“Hey there, stud. You ready to get discharged?” a perky voice calls before the curtain sectioning off my little slice of hell opens.
I nod at the nurse. I can’t bite her head off; she’s only doing her job.
I listen with one ear when she starts to go through the care instructions for my leg. Not the first time I’ve had stitches, probably won’t be the last. But at least this story is more memorable than me running into barbed wire when I was sixteen.
Less than three miles into my six-mile trail run I managed to startle a bear. I was too busy staring at the Teton Mountains off in the distance to hear it. How it didn’t hear me coming, I have no fucking idea. Usually I make enough noise that most wildlife stays away from me. I was damn near riding the big brown pain in my ass piggyback-style before I realized that it was there. Managed to get a shot off from my tranq gun, but not quick enough to get out of the striking range of some nasty claws. By the time I hiked my happy ass back down to the trailhead where I had decent enough service to call for help, my leg was a burning, bloody mess and there was a passed-out bear napping on the trail.
Luckily, this time of year, even the tourists don’t go that far out on that trail, since it’s usually a muddy, mucky mess, so I got lucky there. The last thing that I needed was some dipshit from California taking a selfie with the damn thing.
It’s happened before.
Hours at the hospital later, I have a new adornment of medical thread holding the skin on the inside of my thigh together—which is starting to ache. I glare at the offending limb while being wheeled out to Jackson’s truck in a wheelchair.
This day could not get any worse.
2
JEM
Where in the actual fuck did all this snow come from? My headlights try to cut through the sheet of white in front of me, but visibility is worse than my Grandma’s eyesight after a lively night of sherry-laced bunco with friends.
I’m inching down the road at the speed of a snail, and the lingering sunlight isn’t doing shit to help matters.
White-knuckling the steering wheel, my speed—or lack thereof—is only going so far in keeping my wheels on the rapidly disappearing road in front of me. Snapping out a hand, I put on my hazards and ease to the side of the road. The breath of air that gusts through my lips lifts my bangs and swishes them across my forehead. Dragging my bag from the passenger seat, I riffle around in the depths of the black hole that is my purse for my phone.
No signal. Of fucking course. Slumping forward, my head meets my steering wheel with a dull throbbing thump.
“Deep breaths, Jem. It’ll probably stop soon.”
Being stranded on the side of the road in my car in a freak March snowstorm is just what I don’t need after the day I’ve had.
Starting the day off on the wrong foot was the lack of hot water for my shower. The shower that I not only had to rush through because of the temperature, but because I was late for a meeting with my real estate agent. The hot water heater in my condo is a menace. It’s older than my proud AARP card-carrying Aunt Penelope, and the water is either so hot it’ll literally melt your face off, or it can handle half a shower max, with no in-between.
I managed to make my appointment to tour multiple retail spaces only ten minutes late, without any caffeine or food in my system, but every single building we looked at was either on the verge of collapse or beyond anything I could have ever hoped to afford with my budget.
I held it together long enough to text my boss, Ally, the shitty results of the day before starting the trek back to Felt when the flaky, moisture-riddled hellfire started.
Weird way to punish me for something in my past life, karma, but okay. I’m sorry and I won’t do it again…I hope.
Peering out the windshield of my car is getting me nowhere. I wouldn’t see a snake in front of me as fast and hard as the stuff is falling. But the prospect of getting my ass out of my still mostly warm car doesn’t sound like the smartest decision I could make.
“Would me climbing out of the car be how a horror movie starts?” I ask myself.
Rolling my eyes at my own stupidity, the decision is made for me when I see where my gas gauge is sitting. An empty can of spray paint has more fumes in it than my gas tank does if the red line yelling at me is anything to go on.
I knew I should have filled up before leaving town, but again, I was late. I didn’t have time to make a pit stop without standing up Kelly, my agent.
