Page 37 of Grouch-ish

“Yeah,” Brock calls back. “But do you know how to get to Paradise Farms from here?”

“Are we lost?” I cry out.

The other man shifts on his rumbling machine. “You can either turn back around and head back toward Red Cedar Highway, or I’m pretty certain that moving forward you’ll eventually hit the outer edge of the property. Look out for the fencing.”

Ah, the fencing. Maybe that explains the busted section more than wayward cows.

“Thanks, man,” Brock says.

“Happy New Year,” the guy replies, flipping his eye shield back in place and aiming his gaze over his shoulder to the girl behind him. She gives a hesitant wave before gripping the sides of the man’s outwear as they take off again.

“Are we lost?” I repeat.

Brock removes a hand from the handlebars and rubs it over my covered thigh. “I’ve got us, snowflake.”

Not the most reassuring response, but also, equally comforting. Brock isn’t going to let us be lost in the woods. He isn’t going to let us flounder like Reggie eventually did, leading me astray and believing lies he told me.

We aren’t struggling, baby.

We aren’t a lost cause.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about Reggie, and I quickly release the unwanted memories as we whiz past trees and weave along the natural trail eventually ending up along a fence line I recognize, especially when I see the temporary posts Brock recently installed. The snow is really piling up and I have a better sense of its depth as we near the wire lines outlining Dad’s land.

“If we follow this to the right, there’s a gate down the way.”

Only, I’m wrong. There isn’t a gate, and we travel longer than I’d expected. Despite the layering of long underwear and leggings, plus snow bibs, thick socks and solid boots, the cold air is seeping through the padding, and I shiver inside my jacket.

I don’t want to complain, but I’m really cold.

Time seems to slow, and not in a good way, as it feels like forever before a familiar house comes into view in the distance. Brock eventually finds one of the leaning gates I mentioned, though not the one I thought was close, and he pushes it open as best he can in the thick snow drift. The opening he creates is only big enough for the snowmobile to squeak through and Brock hops off the powerful machine once more to right the gate.

With a hand on my shoulder, he questions me. “You still okay?”

I nod, holding back any complaint.

Brock returns to the helm and speeds down the straight lane. In our new haste, I appreciate the easy pace he took during our earlier wanderings. With this clear breakaway, he’s gunning the engine. I want to feel that sense of freedom I felt earlier, but instead, I huddle against his back, squeezing his middle tighter.

The turtle-scarf around my neck has slipped and icy air whips against my skin.

We’re almost there.

Then the engine sputters and the snowmobile jolts.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I think we’re out of gas.”

“Haven’t you been monitoring the gauge?”

“Of course, which is why I wanted to return home.”

My gaze flits to the house. Walking the remaining distance won’t be that bad but we can’t leave the snowmobile in the middle of the orchard.

On cue, the machine coughs out its last bit of energy and stalls.

“Fuck,” Brock mutters, loud and clear despite the scarf around his neck and helmet over his head.

I shift, swinging my leg over the side and sliding off the back seat. My legs vibrate. My thighs tremble.