But then we did see the car. Out of the veil emerged that same blue glow, that same vehicle, clearly a newer car with those odd, too-bright headlamps. It was not moving, but parked under an overpass just ahead. I slowed down, scanning quickly for an exit or even a death-trap rest stop. Nothing. Stefan said then, “There is no license plate.” I had to go on, so I sped up; but as I passed the driver, he spun the car around and hit the gas, this time aiming straight at us. I switched to the far lane and dropped back. He made a fast stop...what did he have on that car? Tank treads? I had no other way to go but to pass him again. Why would some person I never saw before in my life try to run my car off the road? I proceeded slowly, but the lone driver gunned it. This time he actually did clip my bumper, and our car skidded, spinning around once, twice, then ploughed a backward path across lanes and the shoulder into the snow, toward the edge of the river bluff. Stefan and I slammed against our seat belts as our car finally lurched to a stop, both of us afraid to glance to the right, as if that glance would dislodge us. Finally I looked down, down the sixty feet or more to the riverbed. Our car had stopped just short of going over the ledge. Just beyond us, the phantom vehicle had pulled over on the shoulder, and the driver stood there beside it and stared down at us through his mirrored glasses. He wagged a warning finger. It seemed an older man’s gesture, but this guy looked young, around Stefan’s age. Then he got back in his car and pulled away.

I opened my mouth. I shut my mouth. “We’re okay,” I finally said. “We’re okay, right?”

“We’re good.” He said, “Do you think he’s going to be waiting for us up ahead?”

“I’m going to call Triple A,” I said. But the thought of the two hours it would probably take for them to reach us yawned like a cave. “I’m going to call the police.”

We stared at each other. No police.

“I’m going to call Dad,” I said.

“It will just worry him,” Stefan said and suggested, “Maybe we can get ourselves out.” He managed to carefully shove the door open then edge his way out safely, bless his new boots. For a brutal, soaking half hour, he pushed against the car bumper as I kept the wheel turned tightly toward the road until, in a miracle of four-wheel drive, the car finally gave a little jump and struggled up, lipping the shoulder. My hair was plastered to my face with tears. I hadn’t realized I was crying. Stefan hopped back in and we drove on.