“That just seems like common sense to me,” she says. “And honestly, under normal circumstances, I would not advise that you get into a car with a stranger, either, but unfortunately, the buses have probably shut down already, so I don’t think you have any other option. Lucky for you, I happen to know that I’m not a murderer.”

These are reasonable arguments all around, and I finally hoist myself into the passenger seat of her truck. She jogs around the cab and climbs into the driver’s seat. Before she does anything, she hooks her phone up to an aux cord attached to an old cigarette lighter. The engine doesn’t sound any better than the rusty doors, and it turns over a few times without catching when she cranks the keys.

“Hang on.” She sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth as she leans into the wheel and tries again. When the truck finally sparks to life, her playlist clicks on, blaring “I Do Not Hook Up” by Kelly Clarkson.

“Did you time that?” I ask, gesturing to the speakers.

“I wish I had.”

“I forgot this song existed, honestly. This album defined the fifth grade for me. What?” I glance at Jack across the cab of her truck and catch her looking at me again. Looking at me like—

“This is pretty,” she says, reaching over to touch a single finger to the edge of my hand-knitted scarf. That’s it. One finger. Not even touching me. Touching my scarf. Yet somehow, that one finger is enough to turn me inside out.

“Oh, it’s, um. Meredith made it,” I say.

Jack turns forward, pushing her glasses up her nose again. “It matches your eyes,” she says as she yanks the gearshift into reverse and eases her foot off the brake. And—nothing happens. The tires spin beneath us, the engine whines, but Gillian does not budge.

“Uh-oh.”

“What do you mean uh-oh?”

“I’m just gonna—” She hops out of the truck as if to diagnose the source of the problem, even though the problem is quite clear. It’s the snow. There are parked cars all around us, abandoned and covered with snow, and up ahead is a snarled line of traffic on Ninth Street, cars fishtailing and peeling out.

I jump out of the truck too, and follow Jack around to the back. “I think she’s stuck,” Jack observes. “We’ll have to dig her out. Fucking snow.”

My anxiety feels like a tangle of Christmas lights again—like a horrible, inextricable knot lodged in my chest, spreading up to my throat and down into my stomach. “Won’t they plow the roads soon?” I ask as Jack crouches down behind the rear tires.

“That’s so cute, Ohio, but no.”

“Okay, Portland, why not?”