Page 2 of Protected from Torment

A large maple leaf slaps against the windshield, smack-dab in the center of my vision. The wiper snags it, dragging it back and forth, and making wet lines across the glass.

After several swipes, it’s clear the leaf is stuck. Which means my visibility is even worse than it already was.

“Argh,” I mutter to myself. “Stupid leaf.” Because, of course, it’s one of those giant, mutant leaves that’s practically the size of my head.

Envisioning having to make the rest of the drive with a head-sized leaf stuck in my wipers, I debate pulling over to remove it. But just as quickly, I toss that idea aside. With the rain coming down in torrents, like it is now, I’d be soaked in seconds. And then I’d not only be anxious about this trip, but wet and cold, as well.

A glance at the thermometer reading on the dash shows it’s dropped fifteen degrees since the last time I checked it. Before, it was a balmy eighty degrees, and now it’s sixty-five. Though my car is comfortable, I shiver. Goosebumps prickle my arms.

With the rain slicking the road, I reduce my speed until I’m going forty instead of the posted fifty-five. Although locals—and I still call myself that, even if I haven’t lived in the Adirondacks in years—would normally travel much faster than that.

When I was growing up, we used to joke that you could tell the tourists by how fast they were driving. There were the cautious ones, creeping around the mountain curves and slowing on the descending hills. And then there were the daredevil ones, who took the sharpest curves on two wheels and treated the country roads like they were ‌part of the Grand Prix.

But the locals, we knew just how fast we could go and still be safe. We knew the curves like the back of our hand. And when winter hit, we knew how to handle black ice and snow-covered roads.

To my right, a sign announces that Tupper Lake is fifteen miles ahead. Which means I still have another seventy miles or so until I reach Lake Placid. Hopefully, I’ll be past this storm well before that.

I’m sure I’ll be past the storm soon.

Unless it’s traveling right along with me.

“Stupid rain,” I grumble. “Stupid trip.”

Yes, I’m aware I sound like a petulant teenager. But there’s no one else in the car to hear me. Not even Oscar, my dog slash best friend, who usually goes everywhere with me.

Unfortunately, Vince’s mom is allergic to dogs, so I had to leave him at the dog hotel in Northville, which I know is only adding to my anxiety. Oscar isn’t just my pet; he’s a therapy dog trained to help with PTSD. If he were here, he’d sense my growing unease and put his golden head on my leg. I could stroke his soft fur. But as it is, I’m on my own with this.

Impossibly, the rain starts coming down harder. Even at double-time, my wipers can’t keep the windshield clear. My tires keep slipping on the puddles collecting on the road.

An ache moves through my jaw, belatedly reminding me I’m clenching my teeth. Tension pulls at my shoulders, and my fingers are stiff from clutching the wheel.

This isn’t just a regular summer storm. It’s a deluge. With every second that passes, the rain comes down harder. The wind is whipping into a frenzy, knocking small branches onto the road.

“Maybe I should turn around,” I say to myself. Out loud, because a fun habit I’ve picked up during the years I’ve been living alone is talking to myself. Not in public, thank goodness—I’m not that far gone, yet. But around my house? I’m a regular chatterbox.

The idea of turning around is tempting, to say the least. I could go back to Long Lake, just a few miles southeast of here, hopefully making my way out of the storm in the process. Then it would be another hour and a half to Northville, where I could pick up Oscar from the boarders and take him home to spend an uneventful weekend with me.

I could snuggle up on the couch and watch TV—not horror movies anymore, I lost my taste for gruesome scenes after Vince died—but some old episodes of The Office or Parks and Rec. I could take Oscar on a long walk by the lake, stopping at the dog-friendly cafe on the way home to pick up some snacks for me and homemade biscuits for him. It would be a quiet weekend, but that’s okay. Quiet is good. Quiet is safe.

Or I could just go to Lake Placid and get this trip over with.

Sighing heavily, because being a responsible adult isn’t fun, I shut down wistful fantasies of a lazy weekend at home. I slow my speed to thirty as I come up on a curve. My automatic headlights brighten in reaction to the darkening sky.

Just as I’m closing in on the sharp turn, a set of headlights appears behind me. The driver has their high beams on, and they don’t bother to switch them off when they see me.

“Tourists,” I mutter, even more sure of it once I see the New Jersey plates in my rear-view mirror. The car closes the distance between us quickly, only slowing once it’s less than a car’s length from me.

Once I’ve rounded the curve, the driver flashes their headlights. Whether they want me to speed up or pull over so they can pass, I’m not sure. But I’m not speeding up, so I pick the second option and veer onto the shoulder.

The car whips past me, kicking up a spray of water in its wake. I shake my head and say, “What’s the big hurry?” just like my dad always does when he sees a driver doing something foolish.

A beat later, I chuckle when I realize that, like those commercials for insurance, I really am turning into my parents.

As the car disappears into the torrents of rain ahead, I roll my shoulders and relax my jaw. Releasing the wheel one hand at a time, I flex my fingers. Using the box-breathing technique my counselor taught me, I breathe in for five, hold it for five, then out for five, and hold again. After several rounds of it, some of the tension banded around my chest releases.

Just ahead, a branch crashes to the ground, and I carefully swerve around it.

Then, a few seconds later, another set of headlights approaches. But this time, they’re moving more slowly. More cautiously. This car—no, not a car, an SUV—keeps a steady three-car-length behind me. A local, I decide, or at least someone who’s spent plenty of time in the mountains.