Category:

CHAPTER ONE

Rebecca Carter saw the first flakes of new snow fall from the night sky and settle on the windshield. The road ahead was dark, twisting down through the hills, the headlights catching scrub and rock peering through the drifts of white.

Golden City lay below; she had caught occasional glimpses of its lights through the trees. She had planned this route several days in advance. Boulder lay to the north, and Superior south of that, then Golden at the edge of the Denver metro area. She would head south from there, skirting the mountains, then down to New Mexico, or maybe west toward Utah, driving until the fatigue got too much to carry. West or south, didn't matter, but she needed to put some distance between here and there.

"Try to get some sleep," Rebecca said. "Go on, get in back." 

"Not yet," Moonflower said.

She had been christened Monica, but not long after, Rebecca had taken to calling her Moonflower. For the blossoms her own mother grew in the greenhouse behind their home in Madison, Wisconsin. They bloomed at night, pale white faces in the darkness. A thread that still connected Moonflower to her grandmother, causing an ache in Rebecca every time the memory surfaced.

"Come on," Rebecca said. "You're tired. I can tell. You've been doing that thing you do."

She rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand, mimicking the gesture Moonflower had made all her life when sleep wanted her.

"Have not," Moonflower said.

"Have too. Now, come on. Listen to your mother." 

"Don't talk to me like I'm a baby."

Moonflower teased at her coal-black hair, twining it around her fingers, a crease in her brow.

"No, we're not doing this. It's been too long a night and I don't have the patience for your attitude. You hear—" 

"Mom!"

The beast filled her vision, hulking across the road, snow dusting its back. The elk froze as Rebecca wrenched at the wheel, the van swerving left then right. The passenger side wheels mounted the shoulder, losing grip, throwing the van back across the asphalt. Moonflower cried out as her head bounced off the door. Rebecca felt the rear of the vehicle fishtail, and she eased off the gas, moved her foot to the brake pedal, resisting the urge to stamp down on it and risk losing all control. The van mounted the shoulder on the opposite side of the road and now all Rebecca could see was a white mound of snow, reflecting the glare of the headlights. A dull thump, and she was thrown forward as the van slowed with a lurch, the seatbelt grabbing her chest and waist. Now she depressed the brake, and the van finally halted, its nose buried in snow. The engine fought for a few seconds then stalled. All was still and quiet now, save for the wind and Moonflower's jagged breathing. Rebecca reached for her daughter.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Yeah, no," Moonflower said. "I'm fine. I hit my head, but it's all right." 

"Let me see."

"It's fine, Mom." 

"Let me see."

She turned her daughter's head, examined the skin. A red mark at the corner of her eye, that was all, no blood. No open wound.

"Okay," Rebecca said. And to herself, "Okay."

She pulled the handle and pushed the door open, fighting against the bank of snow outside. Enough of a gap to squeeze through, she told Moonflower to stay put, then climbed out, her feet sinking into the white. She struggled to the rear of the van and looked back along the road. Thirty yards away, the elk looked back at her. Still and impassive, its breath misting. Eventually, it huffed, lowered its antlered head to sniff at the road, then moved off toward the treeline.