Questioned in the Snowy Smokies

December 18th, 1997 — 5:00 PM Snow drifts lazily through the air as my headlights

cut a narrow tunnel through the darkening road. The windshield wipers creak back and forth,

barely keeping up. The radio hums softly—some forgettable song I’ve heard a hundred times before.

I tell my friend over the phone that I’m heading out camping for a few days.

I need the space. Work has been suffocating, and lately it feels like everyone expects me to know exactly

where my life is headed. I don’t. I can hear it in my own voice—tired,

uncertain. Directionless. Mid-sentence, a deer bolts across the road.

I jerk the wheel hard. Tires scream against the asphalt as the car skids sideways,