John could smell his rear tires burning. Christ, he thought. I’m burning rubber and it’s three degrees outside. He felt the back end of the car slide to his right and cursed. He pulled the wheel hard right and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The skid slowed, and he felt the front tires grab the snow just before the damn car went horizontal. He couldn’t see shit. The snow had been coming hard for the past two hours and was getting worse. He had given up on his brights about twelve miles back; they let him see the snowflakes, but did absolutely jack for the road.
“Take it easy, John. Just pull to the right.”
“I am fucking pulling to the fucking right as hard as I can. This stupid fucking thing just won’t…” A car sped past, climbing the hill on the left.
“What an asshole. John, ease up on the gas.”
“Steve, if I ease up on the gas, we’ll slide into the embankment.” John could feel the rear tires spin on the ice. It had been snowing for about five hours, piling powder on top of the slush and ice that had covered the local roads for the past week. Driving had been bad since they’d gotten here, but it hadn’t been this bad. They’d picked a bad night to try for a dinner out. John let the pedal up slowly and felt the car begin to slide backward the hill. He gave it a little more gas, but the car slid right back into the embankment. The impact was slight, but it was enough to knock the rear end of the car straight again. With the car back on the road, John eased the car back down the hill.
“Steve, I’m sorry, but we’re going back to the Cricks.”
The rest of the drive was silent. As John pulled the car, a little too fast, into the unplowed driveway, Steve said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll be asleep.”
“Don’t bet on it.” John glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s only 9:30. He’ll be waiting for us.”
John watched the snow fall and wondered how the hell they were going to get the damn thing out of the driveway in the morning or if they’d be able to get out at all. He reached into the back seat for his jacket and saw that Steve already had on his gloves, his hat, and his scarf. It was a thirty-foot walk to the front door, but Steve was going to be well covered. Protection from the cold or from Harold? Probably both, John thought. Hell, he’ll probably pull that hat down over his face and go straight up to his god damned room. If Harold was awake, it would be John’s responsibility–again–to talk to him. John opened his door and grimaced as he braced against the cold.
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