By the time we rumble back down the drive, Nash has carved a path around the truck with a shovel and a lot of bad language. He’s sweating under his beanie, breath fogging.
“This snow is out of pocket,” he complains as we pull up. “I’m filing a formal grievance with whoever’s in charge.”
“That’d be God,” Clay says. “You wanna take that one?”
Nash squints at the sky. “Sir, with all due respect?—”
“Move,” I cut in, because if I let them keep going, we’ll be out here all day.
I ease the dually to a stop on the shoulder, angling us just right. Gravel and ice crunch under the tires. Boone hops out of the passenger side and meets me at the front.
“You thinking we pull her straight up,” he says, nodding toward Faith’s pickup, “or back her along the ditch a bit first?”
“Straight up,” I say. “The longer she’s down there, the more likely we are to slide with her. We’ll get the strap low on the frame, keep it slow, let the tires walk.”
“Copy that.”
We work mostly without talking for a few minutes. It’s a language we all speak: chain through this point here, check the hooks, double check the strap, tap the ice away from the tow loop with the heel of my hand. My breath fogs up under the brim of my hat. Snow works its way down my collar; I ignore it.
“You sure about that angle?” Nash asks from the ditch, hands braced on his knees.
“Yes,” I say.
“How sure?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You want to drive the tow truck?”
He looks at the dually, then at me. “No.”
“Then shut up.”
Clay laughs, teeth flashing.
We get the strap secured to the front of Faith’s truck, looping it snug around the frame instead of trusting the bumper. Clay climbs into her cab, cranking the wheel straight. The engine turns over after a couple of tries, stuttering before it catches.
“There she goes,” he calls over the engine noise. “She wants to live.”
“She better,” I mutter, heading back to the dually.
Boone leans in the open window. “Nice and easy. No hero moves.”
“Have you met me?” I say.
“That’s why I’m saying it.”
He claps the roof twice and steps back.
I drop the truck into four low, feel the transfer case settle. The whole rig hums under me, solid and ready. Fingers light on the wheel, I put a little tension on the strap until it goes taut, can feel the weight of Faith’s truck hanging off the back.
“Clay, you with me?” I call out my window.
“Yeah,” he yells back. “Got her in drive. I’ll give her a little gas when you start moving.”
“All right,” I say, mostly to myself.
I let the clutch out slowly.
We lurch forward an inch, then two. The strap goes tight, then looser as the tires start to climb with us. The dually’s rear wheels spin for half a second, then bite, chains catching in the mix of snow and gravel. The whole chassis shudders.
