I give the engine gas and leave the road, bouncing over icy ruts. The field is deeply furrowed beneath the deceptive blanket of snow. The sensation is like riding across a corrugated tin roof.

I come up to the crumpled, steaming van on the driver’s side. It is a commercial vehicle: a Ford Transit Connect. The left door is ajar, and I see a man’s leg hanging out. The foot, visible in my headlights, is wearing a rubber boot.

My first thought is I’ve killed the poor guy.

I hop off the idling Yamaha and glance up at the hill and see that my pursuer has stopped along the road. A nimbus of hazy light surrounds the sled. The rider stands silhouetted in the illuminated haze of exhaust and snow. Conscious of my shotgun, he or she must be waiting for reinforcements.

When I pull at the van’s door handle, I expect a bloody corpse to tumble out, but instead I find the driver slumped away from me, into the passenger seat. He isn’t wearing a seat belt. Under the dome light I see a leather bomber; wide wale corduroys, a salt-and-pepper goatee; and a brimmed hat tilted forward over his brow as if he’d pulled it down to take a nap.

The bottle of rum he’d been sipping from has shattered on impact. Bright bits of glass sparkle. The sickly smell of distilled molasses rises from the vinyl and cloth upholstery.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

He groans and flaps his left arm. I detect no blood on him whatsoever.

“Am I dead?”

Every cop has a story about a drunk who impossibly survived a crash because his body was as limp as a rag doll at the moment of collision. I’ve always thought these tales were bunk, until now. It’s possible he has internal injuries, but I suspect a doctor would pronounce him in better shape than me were we admitted into an ER at the same time.

“You’ve been in a crash. You slid off the road and hit some rocks. Can you tell me your name?

“Reynolds.”

This might be his first or last name, he gives no indication.

I sneak a peek at the ominous sled waiting atop the hill. “Where’s your phone, Reynolds?”

“Why am I all wet? Did I piss myself?”

He means the rum. I have no doubt his urine would be close to eighty proof, too.

“Your phone. Do you have one? Where is it?”

“Somewhere.”

His left hand finds the cigarette lighter in the dash and follows a spiral cord that disappears into the shadows beneath the passenger’s seat. He lifts the end of the charging cable. Nothing is attached.

“I’m going to help you out of the vehicle,” I said. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Of course!” His eyes are bloodshot, but he actually manages to flash some disdain at me.