The Wind Pushed
I lit a cigarette from a dead man’s pack of Marlboro Reds. I hadn’t had a cigarette in 4 hours, so I figured he wouldn’t mind.
The sickness of my car left a noisy black trail up I-90 as it carved through the Montana countryside. A thick, heavy cloak of darkness prevented me from seeing anything more than the sawtooth outlines of the distant mountains.
The wind kept pushing my car toward the snow bank.
Snow shot sideways as I whisked down the highway. The flakes, tinted yellow from my dimming headlights, were the size of leaves. The windows were up and I inhaled another long drag. As the thick smoke billowed out of my lungs and settled across my dashboard, I knew his eyes were hardening in the coldness of tonight.
My eyes burned, but it was probably the cigarettes.
I turned up the radio to lighten my mind, but FM signals don’t reach this side of the mountains. I switched it off and focused back on the road. The monotony of the yellow stripes calmed me and I drifted back to him.
“Help me,” he shivered, choking on his own blood. He had crawled from the wreckage where his passenger sat upside down, burning.
His truck was mangled in pieces across the interstate. He was mangled in pieces across the interstate.
The air was cold and my car’s heater still worked just fine.
I could tell that he had nothing left. And I have warrants. Something inside me wanted to save him, but it was just too late.
I watched him die.
I took his cigarettes, and $17 in cash. He wouldn’t need them now.
The wind kept pushing my car toward the snow bank. I lit another cigarette. I wish this radio worked. Maybe AM.