Page 105
A few weeks ago, this gate had caught me on the way in.
Now it caught me after I had finally decided to stay.
"Very funny," I told Big John, the truck, God, or whoever managed ranch humor.
My phone had no signal.
The ranch lay approximately two miles ahead.
Maybe less by the fence line.
Maybe more in weather.
I checked the cab for useful things.
One thin blanket behind the seat. Ice scraper. Tire iron. Half a bottle of water, frozen at the edges. No chains. No gloves beyond the wet work pair in my coat pocket. One knit cap beneath an old receipt. I put on the cap, then the gloves.
I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders under the barn coat. It bunched badly at the arms but added one layer.
The truck was shelter.
Leaving shelter in a whiteout was how people died.
Staying in a truck gradually buried under snow, on a closed county road where no plow was coming, while the ranch sat two miles away was another method.
I knew the fence.
I knew the gate.
I knew the yard light, if power still held, would sit almost straight west.
And people knew where I was heading.
That last part mattered.
I took the keys.
The truck loan had both our names on it. It was the last thing I owned that could carry me anywhere, which meant I had mistaken it for escape even while it kept a legal line tied from my address to his.
I left it in the ditch.
The door fought me.
Wind caught it and nearly tore it out of my hand. Snow came into the cab at once, filling the seat, needling my eyelids. I forced the door shut and stood beside the buried Ford with my back to the gust.
The cold took the heat from my clothes in under a minute.
There were no heroics in the first hundred yards.
Only awkwardness.
Snow varied from ankle to knee depth without warning. Each deep step caught my boot and made me wrench it free. The blanket restricted my shoulders. My coat hood blew off until I tied the drawstring so tight the fur edge narrowed my vision.
I reached the fence.
Woven wire. Top strand smooth, thank God, not barbed.
I put my right hand on it.
