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Stopped.

Again, less.

The Ford climbed out.

I laughed once.

It sounded terrible.

Mile four bent around a low pasture. I knew the corner because a cottonwood stood alone inside it, struck by lightning down one side. The tree never appeared. I turned when the fence did and trusted the memory of feeding pairs there with Boone three weeks earlier.

At mile five, the Ford's undercarriage began dragging.

Snow made a steady soft impact beneath the floorboards. The road had become a trough and I was plowing it with a compact pickup never built for the job.

I kept moving because stopping meant settling.

Then the gate appeared.

Same gate.

The March gate where my Ford had sunk to the axle on my first morning at Carrow Creek, when I had climbed out in a coat too large for me and met a blue heeler who took one look and chose me.

I recognized the leaning brace post.

I recognized the slight dip where runoff crossed the road.

I recognized the drift too late.

The Ford entered it at twelve miles an hour.

Snow rose over the hood in one white fold. The truck slowed as if a hand had closed around it. I added gentle gas. The tires dug, caught for half a second, then buried themselves with a low grinding churn.

The engine revved.

The truck did not move.

I stopped.

Put it in reverse.

The tires spun.

Forward.

Nothing.

Reverse again, steering left.

Nothing.

The Ford settled onto its frame with the resigned weight of an animal lying down.

I turned off the engine.

Silence did not follow. Wind filled every seam, buffeting the doors, making the hood tremble. Snow hissed across the windshield. The heater fan slowed and stopped.

I sat for one second appreciating the joke.