Page 84 of One Big Little Secret

This is too cold.

Bullshit cold.

The kind of breathy cold that spits across the city, frosting every living thing until you wonder if it will ever let up before trees buckle and power lines snap.

When I was little, I thought an ice dragon came down blowing ice crystals, rather than fire. My mother used to laughat how dumb it sounded, too practical to entertain childhood fantasies for a split second.

Now, I know better, but there’s still the same sense of weird dread I used to get—especially when I look at the car’s temperature and it says thirty degrees.

Right on the nose.

Just a degree or two away from unpredictable ice that will send this car skittering off the road if I’m not careful.

I start the engine and let the heater run, making sure the windshield fully defrosts before we start moving.

“It’s like being in a spaceship tonight,” Arlo says, imitating spaceship sounds that are way too fancy for this old car. “The snow looks like stars.”

When I was young, I also used to pretend the swirling snowflakes illuminated in the headlights were some sort of time warp, too. But that was before I was the driver.

I hate driving in this crap.

At least the roads are pretty deserted, thanks to the weather. There aren’t many cars out.

I ease us onto the next street, feeling the tires churn through accumulated mush.

Shit, don’t give up on me now.

“Mommy,” Arlo says quietly, sensing the tension. “What’s for dinner?”

His favorite question, and the worst when I’m praying for the car.

“I don’t know yet, honey. Please let me focus.” I glance in the mirror and ease my foot on the gas.

I’m not a bad driver.

Not an amazing one, no, but not terrible. I have a lifetime of experience with how Kansas City streets get with spotty services and temperatures that can change on a fly.

But the first time I feel our wheels sliding with zero help from the brakes, I’m worried.

No, don’t touch the brakes. Easy, easy!

“Mr. Spike said I was awesome today,” Arlo says, his head still back in his karate class.

I nod because I don’t want to scare him.

The stoplights glow red through the pelting snow. I swear it’s picking up, coming down in soft pellets you can hear as they hit the hood.

I tap the brakes carefully.

The wheels skid and my hands clutch on the steering wheel.

I say another prayer—or maybe it’s a curse this time—before the tires stick to the pavement and we stop.

Holy hell.

My heart pounds violently in my mouth, so hard I can taste it.

“Mommy?”

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