A fire truck pulls in behind us. I see two more in my peripheral vision.

“People are here. Thank God.”

It feels like forever before I hear someone on a loudspeaker say, “Open your window.”

I do as he asks, by just barely moving my arm to press on the button. I don’t want to move too much in case it causes us to fall.

“I want you to know that you’re not going to fall. You’re hung up on the guardrail. But we have to figure out how we’re going to tow you back onto the road in this ice. It might be a while before we get you out of there. Your doors are too far over the edge. The tires are off the pavement. But I repeat, you’re not in danger of falling.”

“Thank Christ,” Phil mutters.

I reach my arm out the window and give the man a thumbs-up, then roll the window back up because it’s damn cold outside.

“All I’ve ever wanted is to do on-scene reporting for the weather. And look where that got me—hanging over the side of an overpass.”

“It doesn’t usually happen like this, you know.”

“But why is it my luck that it happened this time?”

Phil shrugs. “If it happens to us once in our careers, you got it over with in the beginning. It’ll be boring from here on out.”

“I hope you’re right because I don’t want to do this again.”

We hear and feel the team working behind us as they hitch something to the back of the van—at least that’s what I assume they’re doing. But when the fire truck starts to pull us back, the tires only spin out on the ice.

“They have to use some ice melt under their tires,” Phil mutters.

“I think I see them grabbing buckets of something,” I reply, watching in the side mirror. “I wish I could call Keegan and tell him what’s happening, but my phone is in my bag in the back. Do you have your phone?”

“It’s in the back, too,” Phil says. “We only had a half a mile to go before we planned to pull over again.”

“Yeah.” I sigh and watch in the mirror as they try again to pull us back. This time, the truck gets traction, and the metal of the van screeches as we scrape along the broken guardrail.

When we’re back on the road, I break down into tears.

Our doors are yanked open simultaneously as firefighters help us from the van.

“Are you hurt?” a woman asks, looking me over. “The airbags didn’t go off.”

“No, but I’m okay, I think. I didn’t hit my head. I’m pregnant, though. About ten weeks along.”