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Hutchins wrote it down.

The pen made a small, scratching sound.

Permanent enough.

He capped the pen and looked at me over the glasses.

"Now you'll listen to me. The county road west is closed. Not advised — closed. I've got a plow stuck north of town and two deputies turning back from calls."

"Okay."

"That's not okay. That's you agreeing with me so I'll stop talking." He stood, which took a while. "There's a cot in the back and a phone. You call the ranch, you tell Boone Calloway you're safe in my building, and you sleep. He'll come for you when there's a road."

"The phone lines out there are down. I tried from the lot."

Hutchins looked at me a long moment.

"Miss Marsh."

"I know the road," I said. "I fed pairs along it three weeks ago. I know where the fence goes when the road doesn't."

"That is exactly the sentence people say before I find them in April."

"I know."

I picked up my keys.

He didn't stop me. He could have. I've thought about that since — a sixty-year-old sheriff who'd spent five years learning what it costs to be careful with the wrong person, standing in his own office deciding not to take one more decision away from a woman who'd just handed him three years of them on paper.

"Stay in the tracks," he said. "If you lose the road, don't chase it."

"I won't."

"And when you get there, call me. I don't care what hour."

***

I had done it. And it had felt… not good exactly, but a relief.

The Ford started on the second try. Snow had already filled my tire tracks in the county lot. I backed out, drove past the dark Bluebird, and turned toward Carrow Creek. Home.

My shoulders cramped from gripping the wheel. I made my hands open one finger at a time, then reset them at ten and two. My wet socks had chilled again. The cab smelled overheated and frightened.

At mile three, the truck slid sideways.

Slow.

Almost graceful.

The rear end moved left while the front continued straight, and for a second I was looking out the windshield at the fence instead of the road. I eased off. Turned into the slide. Did not brake.

The Ford settled with its right tires in loose snow and its left tires somewhere firmer.

"Come on," I whispered.

I gave it a breath of gas.

The tires spun.