“Not since White Bend.”
Her heart sank. According to the regional map on the wall, this rest stop was called Wanapa (roughly translating to Little Devil, courtesy of the local Paiute tribe). Twenty miles north was another rest area — the similarly named Wanapani, for Big Devil — and then ten miles further, downhill, was the town of White Bend. And tonight, on the eve of Snowmageddon, or Snowpocalypse, or Snowzilla, or whatever meteorologists were calling it, White Bend might as well be on the moon—
“I got a signal outside,” said a second male voice.
Behind her.
Darby turned. He was leaning against the front door with one hand on the knob. She’d walked right past him when she first came inside (how did I miss him?). The guy was tall, broad-shouldered, about a year or two older than her. He could be one of the Alpha Sig guys her roommate partied with, with a slick mop of hair, a green North Face jacket, and a shy smile. “Just one bar, though, and just for a few minutes,” he added. “My carrier is, uh, T-Mobile.”
“Mine, too. Where?”
“Out by the statues.”
She nodded, hoping she still had enough battery for a call. “Do you . . . hey, do either of you know when the snowplows are coming?”
Both guys shook their heads. Darby didn’t like standing between them; she had to keep turning her head.
“I think the emergency broadcasts are down,” the older one said, pointing to a nineties-era AM/FM radio buzzing on the counter. The source of the staticky insect-noise she’d heard. It was caged behind the security grate. “When I got here, it was playing traffic and ESA stuff on a thirty second loop,” he added. “But now it’s just dead air. Maybe their transmitter’s covered with snow.”
She reached through the grate and straightened the antenna, causing the garbled static to change pitch. “Still better than Bing Crosby.”
“Who’s Bing Crosby?” the younger man asked.
“One of the Beatles,” the older one answered.
“Oh.”
Somehow, Darby liked the older one already, and regretted snapping at him about the Wi-Fi.
“I don’t know much about music,” the younger one admitted.
“Clearly.”
On the big table, she noticed a deck of dog-eared playing cards. A little Texas hold ’em apparently, to bond two strangers stranded by a blizzard.
A toilet flushed in the restrooms.
Three strangers, she tallied.
She slipped her phone back into her jeans pocket, realizing both men were still staring at her. One in front, one behind.
“I’m Ed,” said the older one.
“Ashley,” said the younger one.
Darby didn’t give her name. She elbowed out the front door, back into the subzero chill outside, and stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. She let the door swing shut behind her, hearing the older man ask the younger one: “Wait. Your name is Ashley? Like the girl name?”
He groaned. “It’s not just a girl name—”
The door closed.
The world outside had darkened under shadow. The sun was gone. Falling snowflakes glittered orange in the visitor center’s single exterior lamp, which hung over the doorway in a big pan. But Snowmageddon seemed to have thinned out for a few moments; against the descending night she could see the outlines of distant peaks. Craggy shards of rock, half-shrouded in trees.
She drew her windbreaker up to her neck and shivered.
The crowd of statues that the younger guy — Ashley — had mentioned were to the south of the rest area, past the flagpole and picnic area. Near the off-ramp she’d taken. From here, she could barely see them. Just half-buried forms in the snow.
“Hey.”
She turned.
Ashley again. He let the door click shut and caught up to her, taking high steps in the snow. “There’s . . . so, there’s a really particular spot I had to stand. That’s the only place I could pick up a signal, and it was just one bar. You might only be able to send a text.”
“That’ll still work.”
He zipped up his coat. “I’ll show you.”
They followed his old footprints out there and Darby noted that they were already half-filled with several inches of fresh powder. She wondered, but didn’t ask, how long he’d been stranded here.
Gaining some distance from the building, she also realized this rest area was nestled on a precipice. Behind the back wall (the restrooms), scoured treetops marked an abrupt cliff. She couldn’t even see exactly where the land started to drop, as the blanket of snowpack disguised the verticality. One misstep could be fatal. The flora up here was equally hostile — Douglas firs whipped into grotesque shapes by powerful winds, their branches jagged and stiff.
“Thanks,” Darby said.
Ashley didn’t hear. They kept lurching through waist-deep snow, arms out for balance. It was deeper here, off the footpath. Her Converse were already soaked through, her toes numb.
“So you go by Ashley?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Not, like, Ash?”
“Why would I?”
“Just asking.”
Again, she glanced back to the visitor center, and spotted a figure standing in the amber glow of the building’s single window. Watching them from behind the frosted glass. She couldn’t tell if it was the older man (Ed), or the person she hadn’t seen.
“Ashley is not just a girl’s name,” he said as they trudged. “It’s a perfectly viable man’s name.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Like Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind.”
“I was just thinking that,” Darby said. It felt good to bullshit a little. But still, the wary part of her brain that she could never quite disengage wondered: You’re familiar with that old-ass movie, but you don’t know who the Beatles are?
“Or Ashley Johnson,” he said. “The world-famous rugby player.”
“You made that one up.”
“Did not.” He pointed into the distance. “Hey. You can see Melanie’s Peak.”
“What?”
“Melanie’s Peak.” He seemed embarrassed. “Sorry, I’ve been stuck here a long time, reading everything in the information center. See the big mountain over there? Some guy named it after his wife.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Maybe. Unless he was calling her frigid and inhospitable.”
Darby chuckled.
They’d reached the icicled statues now. A crowd of them. There was probably a plaque detailing what it all meant, under the snow somewhere. The sculptures appeared to be children. Running, jumping, playing, cast in bronze and coated with ice.
Ashley pointed at one wielding a baseball bat. “There. By the little leaguer.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. That’s where I got a signal.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you . . .” He hesitated, his hands in his pockets. “Need me to, uh, stick around?”
Silence.
“You know. I mean, if—”
“No.” Darby smiled, a genuine one. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. It’s cold as balls out here.” He flashed that easy grin of his and walked back to the orange lights, waving over his shoulder. “Have fun out here with the Nightmare Children.”