He felt the impact but never felt his heart stop.

It had been beating quietly on its own for so many years,
he simply didn’t notice when for the first time there was stillness in his chest.

The windshield was gone except for a crumbled chunk at the top, and the frame was bent towards him, coming at his face like an arrow. The dashboard – and actually the entire front of the driver’s side of the car, he noticed – was completely wrenched out of place and crunched together right up to the point of his chest.

Like it was trying to jump inside him.

On the passenger side though, everything looked decent enough (except for that small burn hole in the seat where some anonymous smoker had left his mark).

His door and empty window frame were pinched like they’d been compacted. (Where did that window go?) And although he tried, Angus could not find his keys. He wiggled his feet as much as his stuck knees and shins would allow, but something pressed down hard on his shoes and with all his wiggling and wandering, he never heard the clinking of keys.

Stolen.

The only thing that made any sense in that mess of a car was his lucky silver football medallion dangling from the rearview mirror – or the stick where the rearview mirror used to be. The medallion had tangled its line around the twisted piece of plastic and now swayed slowly, collecting petals of snow along with the rest of the car.

As he sat there in silence, Angus tried to think of what might have happened that his car should be stopped and so bent out of shape. His head ached from somewhere in the back and his face felt sticky. When he tried to remember or coerce some logical explanation, words and ideas got mixed up and hazy; thoughts melted away like the snowflakes that landed on his hand.

I was driving… yes, somewhere. Was I driving? Then my tires should be around here somewhere…

He frowned and tried to lift his left arm to scratch his head, but it wouldn’t move, so he used his right instead.

Did the stewardess bring me my drink?

He looked around the car; but the extent of his view was limited to the crumpled dash and the empty passenger seat.

No, I’m in a car. A rental from Enterprise who did NOT come to pick me up. I put my football on the mirror. But where are my keys?

A rush of icy wind grated against Angus’s face and something metal creaked behind him. His mind froze. He listened, but there was nothing. Just that creak, and then nothing. He envisioned packs of wolves and angry beasts circling in the snow, creeping around out of his sight, grinding their long metallic claws as they snaked into the car, their steel fangs dripping with oil. Angus shuddered.

“Ok.” The word groaned like a cellar door that hadn't been opened in decades.

“Ok,” he groaned again, but now in a more determined, more “Mr. Angus Harford” tone.

“Time to get out.”

And just like a child squirming his way though a playground, he set to work dragging his body toward the passenger side. Nothing hurt him as he moved, so nothing slowed his pace – except the seatbelt. And for just a moment, as he stared in silence and forgot completely about the beasts outside, those straps were more frustrating than the entire situation.

What the hell is this thing?

Trying to force a thought only created empty air inside his brain; he could even see the blackness in his head where rational thoughts should have been but weren’t. Angus had no recognition of what a seatbelt was. He pulled on the top piece, and then on the lap piece; and then he pulled on them both. They didn’t budge – they actually got tighter. Finally and slowly his eyes followed the straps to where they met at his side, and he pushed the red square that said PUSH. The straps clicked and fell away. The empty pockets in his brain warmed up just a little, but were still empty.

Okay, one problem solved. Moving on…

Clawing with his right arm, Angus wrenched his chest from behind the steering wheel, and with it came a thick white skin that shed powder and reeked of acid and mold.

Airbag. I'm in a car. Who has my keys? Where is everybody?

With his chest free, his left arm was also moveable again, and he began to gain some momentum. Pulling with his right arm and pushing with his left, his hips lifted off the seat and started to scoot. But the bottom of the steering wheel pressed down hard on his thighs, while his shins and feet were still pinned under what he assumed to be the rest of the dashboard.

Someone should really be helping me out; this is the worst customer service…

He was sweating now, sweating in the snow.

Gonna write corporate… never drive with… Enterprise again…

Tiny blood vessels popped in his face and Angus’s signature mid-forehead vein – generally visible only when he laughed – pumped thick with anger as he shoved against the steering wheel as hard as he could. It wouldn’t budge.

Damn steering wheel, goddamn car, fucking piece of shit plastic.

His knuckles burned white and his palms dug into the wheel, and he didn’t breathe, but that just made him shove harder.

Suddenly, with a crack, Angus’s whole seat popped off its hinges and tipped over, taking his butt with it and yanking his feet out from under the dash.

(In the event of a crash landing your seat may be used as a flotation device.) The words flew through his head in the filtered voice of a stewardess and for just a moment, he was there, in the plane, staring at the tray table in front of him, smelling that stale airplane air and kicking at the travel bag stowed at his feet.

I hate the aisle seat.

Angus blinked and he was back in the car, in his broken seat, no longer stuck. He smirked. And dragging himself across the passenger side (and directly over that nasty burn hole), Angus swung open the door and rolled into the snow, panting.

For a moment, he just sat and stared.

How did I not see the tree?

Standing tall and strong, a bare tree loomed overhead – with a car wrapped around its trunk like they were meant for each other.

How did I not see THIS tree?

Gazing back inside, he wondered where a body could have fit – and survived – in all that mess of metal and glass and faux leather. He titled his head one way, then the other; a frown that spoke not of anger or confusion but of simple amazement wrinkled his face as he studied the remains. A growing layer of white covered the wreckage.

I hope I got insurance for this. Did I get the insurance? Holy shit, did that lady give me my credit card back?

Angus looked up into the falling snow, blinking when the feathers tapped his eyelashes, but not even feeling the ones that hit his face. Not a sound could be heard. He sighed, and noticed that his bottom lip was trembling.

Hypothermia. Take your clothes off and bury them in the snow. No. Survival of the fittest scenario. No. There’s that book – Scenarios… Worst Case Scenarios. I could use the pages to light a fire and eat dinner. Wait, no…

Instinctively, his hand grabbed at a bulge in the right pocket of his khakis.

Oh my God, Sara, I have to call Sara.

Fumbling with his pocket, his trembling hands practically hurled the phone into the snow before he secured it in a firm (albeit still shaking) grip and stared at the black screen. He blinked. Silence.

Why do I have my phone out? Oh, home. Sara. And the damn dog, what’s my dog’s name? Why didn’t I bring the dog?

Angus let his eyes drift from the phone to gaze off at the miles of rolling white that tugged at his mind like a magnet. There were no more trees, just a calm ocean of white. The empty feeling inside his head returned, and his shoulders fell slightly. For a while, he let himself float away, and the snow began to collect in his hair. His eyes blurred and the fields of snow became a hazy cotton mist, floating back and forth, calming.

I’m alone… I’m all alone…

The words lilted sing-song-like through his head, waving back and forth like seaweed in a warm current.

All alone… All alone...

His body began to sway ever so slightly and a ghost of a smile formed on his lips.

Sara.

A shudder ran through Angus’s hunched body and he clenched the phone tightly. His eyes snapped to alertness and everything popped back into focus.

“Sara,” he said aloud.

The sound of his voice hurtled him back down from wherever he’d been lost. He became aware of his shoes touching the snow and his feet rubbing inside his shoes and the weight of his body pressing into his feet. The hard plastic of the cell phone felt almost warm against his chilled fingers, and the black case jumped out like neon against powder and ice.

“Call Sara.”

His fingers responded, blunt, slow, but still useful. Angus pointed and poked: “2… SEND.” Speed dial. Such a wonderful creation; at this moment, Angus wasn’t sure he could remember his own phone number if he tried. And he didn't want to try. The screen lit up with a tiny telephone lifting off the receiver and sending out small radio wave-like bars into the distance. “SARA. CONNECTING” glowed above the picture.

Slowly, Angus lifted the phone to his ear.

To continue:

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