Mom’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously. Of course it does. She lost her sister last Christmas. Daniel a couple of weeks ago. And now her only daughter is driving through a snowstorm that news outlets are treating like the blizzard that drove people to cannibalism on Donner Pass.

The message appears.

Mom: Who are you with? What kind of SUV? I don’t know that I like this.

Me: Don’t worry. The roads aren’t even that bad. Seriously, it’s mostly flurries. I’ll call in a few. I can’t wait to see you!

Mom: You too, but this storm is getting bad. Please call.

The SUV slows and I look up from my phone to see a smattering of brake lights. Outside, the snow has started to stick, but just barely. Tire tracks ahead leave wide dark trails through the white.

“The traffic is going to get worse,” Brecken says.

“I think you’re right,” Josh responds, the light from his phone illuminating his face. “It’s nothing but red in ten miles. It looks like traffic hits a dead stop.”

“Maybe the road is closed?” Brecken asks.

“Could be,” Josh says. “Maybe an accident?”

“It’s not even that bad,” I say.

“Can we take another route?” Harper asks. “I don’t want to be stuck in traffic until Christmas morning.”

“Maybe we should,” Josh says. “All that red probably means an accident, right?”

“I’ll start looking for an exit,” Harper says with a sigh.

“Let’s do the travel plaza,” Brecken says. “My phone says it’s eight miles up, just past a big bridge.”

Harper’s shoulders inch closer to her ears. “Bridge? Don’t bridges ice over?”

“They do,” I say, because even though the snow isn’t bad, it is sticking.

“Don’t worry,” Josh says. “We won’t let anything happen.”

Really? It’s a nice sentiment, but unless he’s going to call on some sort of mutant ice control powers, I think the roads are going to do their own thing.

“Whoa,” Kayla says.

Her voice is a jolt. She’s mostly slept since we’ve been in the car, so I’m surprised to see her upright, her slender hand pressed to her window. There’s something out there on the road that she’s looking at. A wreck, I think. Harper slows, and Brecken curses softly under his breath, but I can’t see what they’re watching.

I strain against my seat belt, trying to piece together the scene obscured by the snow and Kayla’s foggy window. Then the pieces come together. A sports car sits on its roof in the ditch. It’s like a flipped over turtle, four tires like curling legs, the dark underbelly exposed to our gaze. My stomach tightens.