Mansoor hears a faint whir. An approaching car? He climbs out of the ditch, his body a reluctant helper. When he gets to the top, he stands on the shoulder and surveys the long, straight road, which is flanked on both sides by dark fields. The road is empty. He leans down to get a closer look at the ground. A pain throbs in his right temple, then disappears as quickly as it came. He touches his fingers to the asphalt in the same way he touched the tarmac when they first landed in Canada at Montreal-Dorval International Airport, a gesture of thanks and relief. The road is covered in a light snow, but otherwise it seems fine. No black ice. No drifts.

He must call for help. He slides back down into the ditch and retrieves his cellphone from the car. He dials 9-1-1. The word DIALING remains fixed on the screen. He lifts the phone to the sky like an offering, hoping to catch a signal. Still nothing. He climbs back up the ditch and tries again. No service.

He traces a circle, still holding the phone high. In the distance, an orange haze lights the night sky. The city! He can’t be that far from home. He considers his options. He can wait here for a passing car. He checks his cellphone for the time. Almost midnight. Who’s going to drive by at this hour, especially on a country road? He might wait all night. Or he can walk to a main road where the chance of getting help is better. More passing cars. Maybe a gas station or a store. Who knows, maybe he can even walk home. Can’t be more than a few kilometres, maybe a little more. The night is not especially cold.

He shimmies back down the ditch to retrieve his things from the car. When he pulls open the front passenger door, Dolly’s voice tumbles out of the car, rolling away over the fields into the dark. He leans into the car, his hurt leg jutting out like a plank, and tries to turn off the ignition. But the key is stuck. He pushes on the hazard lights. Just in case someone drives by.

He walks to the back of his Impala and snaps open the trunk. He leans in past the sandbags and retrieves a bag with the words EMERGENCY KIT scrawled across the front. Mansoor made the kit from an old boxy briefcase, one he used during those years when he spent his days off from Patterson to travel the province in search of a business.

He empties out the contents: booster cables, a flashlight that he snaps on and off to make sure it is working, seven feet of waterproof rope, flares, a medical kit, and a folded SOS sign that can be pressed against the inside of a windshield or else placed on the roof of the car. For a moment, he considers displaying the sign. But then laughs. As if anyone will see it. It’s too dark. Besides, this isn’t an emergency. No one is dying here.