Page 49 of Untouchable

He tries again, and still no luck.

He has a bag of cat litter in the back for these kind of occasions—another good habit his father had drilled into him from the time he had his driver’s permit. He pulls his gloves back on and climbs out to retrieve it from the trunk, where it’s wedged underneath his massage table. The whole process is a pain in the ass.

He scatters a bit behind the wheels and gets back in the car, trying to reverse again.

And again—nothing.

“Fuck,”he says loudly, pounding his fist against the steering wheel in frustration.

* * *

Harp grabsan orange safety cone and trots out through the first-floor landing, into the snow.

He can see from here that Parker's going to need a tow—which means Harp is going to have to fix his winch and weld it back on the bumper of his truck, which isn't a small project. A few hours at least.

Parker has just graduated to guest status, even if he doesn't know it yet. The cone flops as Harp jogs to the car. He positions it in the road behind Parker's rear bumper. The last thing Harp wants— on the off chance a stranger does drive into the valley—is them hitting the poor kid's car. And it looks like it’s going to have to sit here for a while.

Harp saw the whole thing go down—it was about as low speed as you can get—but he imagines it was freaky to be out here drifting... especially if he thought Harp was still going to try and send him down the damned mountain this afternoon with no other option to stay.

Parker hasn't seen him yet, and Harp raps a knuckle gently against his driver's side window.

"You okay?" he mouths. Parker nearly jumps out of his skin. He rolls down the window quickly and a huge clump of snow falls inside, beginning to melt immediately on his thin scrub pants.

“Sorry—” he says. “Just, uh, slid a little bit. I’ll be out of here in a second—”

"No, you won't," Harp says gently. He doesn't want to argue about this. He's got too much to do for the animals and he doesn't want to do it in ankle-deep snow. "Come on inside."

“I really should get going,” Parker says, frowning. “The roads are only going to get worse, and—”

"Exactly. You're not going anywhere. Come on, I won't take no for an answer." Harp steps back and motions for Parker to get out of the vehicle, feeling more like a cop than a friend.

* * *

Parker’sso disoriented by the whole experience that he doesn’t argue. He nods dumbly and turns the car off, stepping out into cold.

“Should I just leave—” He gestures to his car.

“It’ll be fine,” Harp says, and Parker sees an orange traffic cone, glowing brightly in the white of the snow, has been placed behind his car.

When did thathappen?

Harp’s already on his way back up to the drive, and Parker trots to catch up with him.

“Er—sorry—as soon as the roads clear, I’ll—” He realizes his voice is unsteady, and his hands are shaking wildly.

Get a grip, Parker, you’re being a baby. It’s just a little snow. You’re totally inconveniencing him. You’re from Colorado, and you can’t handle a little black ice?

The little voice in his mind is at full volume.

"I could use some help if you don't mind giving me a hand," Harp says over his shoulder, striding to the back door on the ground floor.

"Oh—um, sure?" Parker says.

* * *

"We're goingto build a house for my cats—well, they're not my cats, they're the valley cats," Harp says. "Do you want some gloves?"

He decides not to wait for a response. Of course the massage therapist doesn't want his hands all ripped up throwing around straw bales and handling firewood. Harp grabs heavy gloves and tosses them to Parker.

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