The rear driver’s side door was jammed shut, but the one on the passenger side eased open when she tried the handle.

“Oh, my God. Thank you, Sonny and Cher.” Her cheeks were wet, and she realized that she was crying. “Thank you thank you thank you,” she chanted as she eased herself out into the snow.

She sank in up to her ankles, immediately losing both her stilettos. It was fucking cold. But damn it, she’d been born on Mackinac Island. She could survive a barefoot stroll through the snow.

Her teeth chattered until they felt like they were going to pop out of her head, but fear and determination kept her warm as she slipped and slid her way around to the front of the car. Only one lonely headlight illuminated the dark. Smoke and snow glowed eerily in the beam. Beyond it was nothing but a dark void.

In order to get to Camille, she was going to have to crawl in front of the car. The car that was suspended by two skinny, splintered saplings.

Her breath coming in wheezes, Remi slid and scooted her way along the hood. She wrapped her hands around the first tree and scooted forward, her foot catching on a rock. Pain warred with the numbness. Air became a precious commodity.

Another foot forward. Another tree. This one was leaning hard toward the valley or ravine below. She was almost grateful for the dark. Almost relieved that she couldn’t see what was waiting for her below.

The tree gave another groan, and the carcass of the car slid forward another inch.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she whispered. Picking her way carefully around the base of the tree, her heart pounded so loud it sounded like a drum beat.

This was fear. She’d never experienced anything like it before. Never come face-to-face with her own potential demise.

It wasn’t fun. She didn’t recommend it. But everything that had mattered to her to this point stretched out in front of her in a glorious kind of clarity. Mackinac. Her parents and sister. Brick. The way she felt when her brush moved across the canvas, erasing the blank whiteness, fulfilling potential.

She thought of the things she loved. The people she loved. Of cold Vernor’s on a hot day and red lipstick. She wanted more. More of all of it.

She wanted to be loved.

She wanted to live.

She let out a broken cry when she finally made it around the car, crawling her way up the steep grade to Camille’s door.

“For the love of Ella Fitzgerald,” she whispered and wrapped her frozen fingers around the handle.

Tears froze to her cheeks as the door creaked open. Then she realized it wasn’t the door, it was the tree. There was a horrible splintering noise and then a groan.

It was going to give. And without that anchor, the car could fall.

Now or never. She reached inside, pushing the airbag down and fumbling for Camille’s seatbelt. Her friend was still horrifically motionless.