Behind, a relay switched on and off, on and off, a gray sheet of fuzz six inches above. I rolled in the bag and wormed up to jiggle the headlight switch—the noise stopped.

Stomach wedged between seats, legs across the plywood that covered my belongings, I managed the zipper down. Cold flooded the gap. The key was in a denim pocket on the wrong side and took a bit more managing. A bike pedal was pressed in my side. The ignition turned silently. Stores would not open for hours yet.

Before bed I’d pushed the lock without taking the keychain. Should’ve been a spare in the Broncos wallet I’d found in Colorado, but the bugger’d fallen down the center console. I had tried for the bathroom at Walmart then stood and shivered in my jeans and sweatshirt.

Via text, my parents had helped to consult the hivemind—no roaming in Canada. A post mentioned cab companies could do car locks, yet the man on the line had been confused. He’d suggested the RCMP, and, loopy enough, I’d taken the shot; they had scoffed, rightfully.

Eventually Mom’d rang and read the number for a tow company. They’d “get me in a minute,” third call’s the charm, I’d supposed. The desk attendant didn’t object, but had kept eyes on me all the while I’d taken refuge in the hotel lobby. Out $75, I’d got safe in the bag.

Alone among white aisles, my object was displayed on a cardboard stand. I tried not to resent the purchase. Big ceilings had my eyes fuzzy.

I plugged the battery in at the pole beside my space. The lot outlets were on, thanks to the cold. Then, it was the cold that’d caused the predicament.

Teeth separated two candy tablets out of the paper tube—a gift from the princess at the convenience counter. Though there’d been no shortage of highway strangeness, last night’s date registered in the dawn.

My father and I had built the makeshift camper in the back four months prior for an opposite journey. I’d barely lasted one after he’d flown off, and that was in the mountains.

At the doctorate I was to teach 40 freshman, kind of stealing it occurred. I’d gone back to say my intention and sit the conversations, then to hand over keys.

An hour on, the indicator switched green. Attaching leads, the vehicle hummed up without a fuss.

Jump-starter sat passenger side and hooked with an inverter to the lighter. I had a McGriddle from the drive-through before the AlCan while a voice read Let the Right One In. The poor lady in hospital’d burned up.

The empty sky reflected off snow in Fort Nelson, illuminating signage green, white in blinding contrast. Lunch was footlong chicken breast, my usual, infamously plant substitute. After cold cuts’ affair with cancer I liked to think, maybe, that I’d dodged a bullet. Probably the long term effects of ORCB aren’t studied, though.

It showed 1191 miles left, the route: Fort Collins to Fairbanks, a stop in Yellowstone. Whitehorse looked at least half that, so no hope tonight. If not for the course Friday I’d rather have made it in three days instead of two. She’d written a letter for the PhD so must’ve been surprised, but hadn’t asked.

I stared at the map a little more, but no particular stood out. I’d get over the Rockies, I figured, and camp first chance afterwards.

A shiny crack in the dark needles wound up and down between sections of flat straight. The sides cut 50 feet back, it was imposing in spite of the single lanes.

After sundown I’d often seen naught but long hauls, each a dot on the horizon that would split in two. As paint lines’d start to drown we’d swap off the brights. Not one had failed me, nor I them. On the road past Fort Nelson, even in the day, I was solely among friends.

There was a lodge thing with two pumps out front. The gas contraption was worn looking metal shaped like a grandfather clock, with numbers displayed in the way of an old alarm one for a bedside. Apparently no mechanism for card payment had fit the aesthetic.

Two pickups sat parallel of the log walls, but beyond the window was pitch black and my courage bled out on the welcome mat. It was yet to use half the tank, just the staring at the map had worried me.

I don’t recall the way the mountain part looked in the light, except for flakes began to fall before the sun did. Surely that was a sight.

My modus operandi of roaring down straights, each limit taken as a hint for the next corner, started to be put to serious question. I’d overtaken a clump of bison ten yards off the right door, their eyes caught by the cone’s edge. Back at the apartment the thought would’ve been appealing.

It’d been hours since a structure or rest-stop and cell towers were in the dust. Stood on windblown crust, against the stars, the ridges overhead were outlined in the moon’s image. The infinite darkness of pavement hooked past down the hill. I’d raised my arms and twirled a while when a beam of whitish yellow cut ’cross the night.

My companion hurtled at a speed caution forbade in the best of conditions, but I fell in line, knuckles white from catching up. A few thousand pounds of hair and muscle would hardly worry such a creation.

The labeled dot was still many miles away when an orange image lit between F and E on the dash. There’d be a station there, I tried to believe, as ahead red squares careened ’round another steep bank. Each minute was an age.

The look of the dirt road did little to corroborate my silent affirmations. I nodded a salute to the receding lights and crossed left into blackness.

Down a ways was a rectangular gazebo next to what appeared like a gift shop. This pump was a less cohesive piece than the last, but the plastic slot atop the keypad was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. That was until I worked out the interface was vestigial and my joke too close to home.

I’d crawled into the bag when the crunch of tires came alongside and a flashlight cast the shadow of shirt draped handlebars. Faces and uniforms came into focus, then vanished before I could lower my hand.

I awoke drenched as if I’d wet myself. It seemed all might become solid any second and I’d end up a statue in an episode of Scooby Doo. I scrambled the key to the slot and begged the fuel to be enough and the cold not to have got the electronics again.

My soaked clothes shed—they at least didn’t smell of urine—I struggled into long underwear and pulled over a coat and snow pants. No heat’d come off the engine yet so I drove a couple circles and parked near the woods. A trickle ran down my leg as I slithered back inside.

The gas held out ’til a beater brown Ford pulled up to the building. In behind the register, her look shared that no winter gear was containing a week without a shower. When the hose nozzle clicked, and flow took up, an interface display sprung on to count the gallons—some life after all.