The snow is coming fast, piling on the windshield. I try the ignition again. Nothing. Fuck.
Three knocks make me jump.
“Need a ride?”
It’s Trevor, who got suspended our freshman year for bringing knives to school. He jerks his thumb toward his pickup.
We’ve talked, like, twice in my life. But we’re the only ones left in the lot, and home is too far to walk.
He drives with his hands on ten and two. The pickup rides easily, without sliding the way my stupid Corolla does. He turns up the heat and turns down the music.
“Warm enough?”
Cynthia Hamill 