The van slammed into something hard, jolting me forward. A wave of shadowy whiteness obscured the windshield. The van again bounced onto something hard - a boulder? - and shuddered. My vehicle flipped over, then flipped back. I was screaming. Then, with a terrifying boom, the van hit another rock. The windshield shattered. A shock wave of icy snow hit me in the face.

Suddenly, everything went still. I had the confused thought: Arthur's intake meeting. I won't be able to cook this afternoon. It seemed terribly easy to lie still and sleep. . . . I'll bake the librarians' cookies tomorrow. . . .

I don't know how long I was unconscious. Suddenly, a distant voice called, "Hello?" My voice wouldn't obey my brain. I shook my head; snow slithered from my hair. I felt very, very cold.

Pawing and scraping sounds were audible overhead. "Hello?" the voice called again. I groaned and called back, "Yes," in a submerged voice. Actually, the rest of me was underwater, technically speaking. I wondered if I was frozen. I laughed weakly. Pain rippled through my chest and down my arm. Was there anyone else in the van with me, the voice asked.

"No," I tried to howl but it came out like a sob.

I should not attempt to move, the voice cautioned. I didn't want to move. I was breathing raggedly; my lungs hurt. Blood seeped down my arm. I squirmed: More snow fell away from my face. Suddenly, I was desperate to act. I reached up until my mittened hands were clear, waving in the blessed air. I called that I could get out on my own. Before I could do so, however, strong hands reached in and gently tugged me out of my prison.

The cold wind was a bitter shock. Something kept growling in my ear, like a huge mosquito. I was placed on a slanted stretcher. My head spun; my thoughts whirled. Always use unsalted butter in baking. Falling snowflakes burned my eyes. I was on a sled, not a stretcher, attached to a puttering, exhaust-spewing snowmobile. The sled was set at an angle because of the slope. I coughed - which hurt - and blinked. I couldn't see my van, but I could make out three men in uniforms. One of them was bent over my arm. I wrenched sideways on the sled to see what he was doing, but I was strapped in. The movement afforded me a look at my vehicle. The van looked like a squashed beer can - one that would never be recycled.

The men asked me my name and address. I almost giggled, thinking that this was the third time today uniformed people had come to my rescue. That had to be a record. I heard my rusty voice answering them, thanking them. I asked how my arm was, and heard: "Cut. Not too bad." They said I needed to go to a hospital in Denver. I mentioned my clinic in Aspen Meadow. It had an X-ray machine, a doctor on duty, and was an hour closer than Denver to our present location. "It's where I live," I added, although I had just told them that. "My home." Home. My home. Oh, Lord, when will Tom finish our kitchen? I started to sob, and the men clucked that I was lucky to be going anywhere.