I know what this is—it happens every year in Pennsylvania. A dozen snowflakes hit the road and all common sense pours directly out of drivers’ brains. Half of the people drive fifteen miles an hour and the other half weave in and out of lanes doing seventy-five.

The weavers are often the ones that end up like this, but Dad always told me the slowpokes cause it. As we pass, I see a dazed-looking twentysomething behind the car with a cell phone to his ear and—I’m betting—a newfound appreciation for seat belts and airbags. Another car is parked on the curb, a broad-shouldered man heading toward the car to assist.

“They seem okay,” Brecken says. “Just keep going to the exit.”

“That was crazy,” Kayla says. She’s bleary-eyed when she grins at me, still half asleep and seemingly delighted by the accident. It’s creepy.

“Ugh,” Harper says. “I still can’t see anything.”

Brecken reaches like he’s going to take the wheel. “Hey, stay in your lane already.”

“I can’t see my lane, okay?”

“It’s the windshield,” Josh says it at the same time I think it. “It’s getting worse.”

He’s right. Ice is building up on the wipers, so every arc across leaves a narrower section of clean glass. I have no idea how Harper can see the road at all through those tiny clear sections.

“Try the cleaner again,” Brecken says, pointing out the right control. Blue liquid dribbles weakly from the top. Clearly ice has clogged the sprayer.

“Shit.”

“Do the smacking trick,” I suggest. “You know, pull back the wiper blade and whap it against the glass.”

Brecken rolls down the windows, and the air is arctic. He does his wiper first, gripping the blade in his glove and pulling it back hard. It hits the glass with a perfect smack, but though snow sprays, it’s nowhere near clear enough.

“Okay, try to do mine,” Harper says. “I can’t see like this.”

“I can’t reach your window. And it barely worked on mine. We need to pull over.”

“No, we can do this.” Harper rolls down her window, and I cross my arms. The wind is a weapon. My coat might as well be made of lace.

Even twisting in her seat, Harper can’t reach the blade. “I don’t think I can.”

Brecken shakes his head. “Try again.”

“She’s not going to be able to do it,” Josh says simply. I shoot him a glare, but he shrugs. “Her arms are too short.”

He’s right—she’d have to stand up in her seat to reach it. But I hate that he said it when I’m sure she’s already stressed enough and painfully aware of the limitations of her reach.

“Just pull over,” Brecken says. “It’ll be okay. This will be easier if you can see.”