I press my nose against the window, allowing my breath to fog up the glass before I wipe it clear with my hand and peer at a landscape so vague and white I can’t make any sense of it.
“Hang on, kid,” the driver calls, forfeiting a rousing chorus of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” “This storm’s about to get wild!”
The next thing I know, the trolley is violently rocking as the snow pounds from all sides, making it impossible to see out the windows.
“I’m feeling thankful for snow grilles right about now, how ’bout you?” The driver laughs, a light, slightly melodic sound that somehow grates on my ears.
And what the heck are snow grilles, anyway?
I check my cell again. No service, same as before.
But the note app still works, so this is the moment I decide to thumb-type everything that took place, exactly as I experienced it, from the moment the trouble started until the moment I decided it was a good idea to accept a ride from a mental hospital escapee.
Provided Crazy Trolley Guy doesn’t decide to destroy all the evidence, including my cell phone.
When I finally finish, I close my eyes tightly and pray I’ll live long enough to regret this decision.
I stay that way for what feels like forever. Eyes shut. Hands clenched to the point where my fingers go numb. Rocking back and forth like a baby, hoping that just this once, on the undisputed worst day of my life, Lady Luck will do me a solid and get me out of here alive.
I guess I must’ve fallen asleep, because that’s exactly how the driver eventually finds me—a huddled, shivering mess—as he reaches out to grab my arm, his long, gnarled fingers clawing at my shoulder.
“Heya. Wake up, kid. We’re here!” He gives me a shake, looming over me and grinning like the lunatic I’m convinced that he is.
I blink one eye open. The other follows. Then I blink them both again, this time adding a head shake and face rub for good measure. But the scene outside my window stays exactly the same.
“Where the heck am I?” I stare at a landscape of sunny skies, a few fluffy white clouds, and miles of palm trees stretching as far as the eye can see. While I may not know where I am, one thing’s for sure: this is not Greentree. “Where the heck have you taken me?” I glare at him accusingly.
“You’re exactly where you wanted to be.” The driver heads back down the aisle as though he expects me to follow.
“I asked you to take me home!” I shoot eye daggers at his back, outraged in a way I can barely contain.
“Did you?” He stops and glances over his shoulder, lifting his glasses to shoot me a long, hard look before anchoring them in his dreadlocks. “Good luck to ya, kid!” He pulls a lever, and the front door springs open with that same horrible, squeaking protest as before.
“Unh-uh. No way.” I shake my head vehemently, fully aware of the irony of how I prayed for the chance to escape, only to get it and refuse to budge from my seat. “I am not going out there!”
The driver cocks his head and narrows his eyes, reminding me of Sir Dasher Dashaway when he sees something confusing. “Ride’s over, kid. Nowhere to go from here. This is it. The end of the line. Your final stop.”
“But you have to take me back! Back home. To Greentree. You can even drop me at that same bus stop, and I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t care how much it’s snowing!”
The driver shakes his head, eyes glinting. “That wasn’t the deal. I upheld my end, now it’s time for you to uphold yours.” He motions to the door.
“But I don’t even know where I am!” I’m acting panicky, childish, but it’s not like I care. The only witness is a lunatic. Besides, I have good reason to panic.
“Ride’s over,” he repeats. “This is the end of the—”
“Stop saying that!” I check my cell, ready to call my parents, Dougall, 911, even Plum if she can get me out of here, but not only does it no longer have service, it’s completely dead, which means I can’t even add more evidence to my notes. Which also means, I can’t leave any more clues for my parents to find me.
“Can you at least tell me where I am?” I ask, my voice sounding as defeated as I feel.
“Exactly where you wanted to be.”
I shake my head, so frustrated I could cry.
“And it looks like that bodyguard you mentioned is waiting, just like you said.”
The driver uncurls a long, gnarly finger bearing an even longer, gnarlier fingernail and gestures past the door to a shiny black superstretch limo bearing a personalized license plate that reads NICK. He’s the biggest dude I’ve ever seen and is wearing a black suit and holding a sign reading NICK DASHAWAY.
“That’s you, innit?”
“Yeah, but…” My voice fades. I have no idea what to say.
“Best not to keep ’em waiting. It’s been a pleasure having you on board, though.”
He gives me a little nudge that’s really more like a shove, and, left with no other option, I make my way down the steps.