“I don’t know, I guess because it’s home. My whole life was here. I traveled the entire state several times a year with my teams. It’s beautiful. Green and lush. I love summer thunderstorms and winter woodstove tea. There are cute little towns everywhere. And everyone is . . . was . . . nice.”

“They were nice to you because you were a rich, white cheerleader,” Tanq says. “Try being a poor kid from the wrong side of town. Or worse, Black, like Trey. Ohio wasn’t as nice to us, you know.”

“Hey, I was never a cheerleader, I was a basketball . . .” At her disgusted look, I say, “Okay, fair point.”

The snow falls in blinding spirals, getting thicker. The edges of my side window are starting to collect the stuff. Trey’s quilt won’t protect him from this kind of cold; he must be freezing back there.

Our road turns white with the dropping temperature. Everything that got wet will now freeze, making our route treacherous.

“Lake effect,” Tanq says.

“Yup,” I say.

Everyone in the Midwest understands the lake effect, when a cold front blows in from Canada, sweeps over the relatively warm Great Lakes, picking up power and moisture, then dumps it on us with a vengeance.

A few miles later, I can no longer make out lines on the road. I find the knob that controls the windshield wipers, which helps brush the snow away. If the storm gets much worse, we’ll have to stop.

We reach a gas station, and I pull in under the overhang.

“What are you doing?” Tanq asks.

“Checking on Trey.” I roll down the window and stick my head out. The cold air stings my cheeks; the temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees. “You okay, Trey?”

“Yeah,” he hollers. “Just cold.” His voice comes out muffled, like his mouth is full of marbles.

“Do you want to drive for a while? Warm up in the cab?”

“No, you should be the one to stay warm. We can’t risk you relapsing—”

“Trey!”

“Oh. Right. No more babying you.”

The whole car lists sideways as Trey gets to his feet and leaps out of the truck bed. He shakes off the quilt, and even though he’s aiming away, the wind pushes all the collected snow into our faces.

I open the door and step out of the cab. Emmaline follows after, thinking this is a pit stop, so I tell her to go potty and watch while she squats in the fresh layer of snow.

“Here,” Trey says, wrapping the quilt around my shoulders. Then he takes off his sunglasses and hands them to me. “It’s impossible to see anything right now, but these will at least keep the snow out of your eyes.”