Page 17 of Cabin Fever Baby

The line snaked around every available space, meaning I was probably going to get boned there too. While waiting, I perused the three rental companies’ websites to see how bad my boning would be.

Based on the grumbling ahead of me, there would be a severe lack of lube.

Sure enough, there was only a very small, verynotwinter weather-worthy car that would barely fit my 6'2 frame. Knowing it wasn't the rental agent's fault, I just handed over my credit card for a set of keys. Normally, I'd skip the extra insurance, but something told me not to chance it with how my day was going.

I collected my bags, which took another freaking forty minutes.

Now very behind schedule, I blew out a breath. Now I was exhausted, annoyed, hungry, and hell, I probably even smelled at this point. Honestly, I was afraid to check. Not like there was much I could do about it. My mom and dad would still hugthe shit out of me before they pushed me into their very posh bathroom to wash off the airport stank.

The trip across the gangway to the parking garage was slick, since the snow was blustering around with as much anger and annoyance as I felt.

I glanced in the direction of the hotels near the airport. Maybe I should just crash at one of those and start over in the morning, but I wanted a real bed and my mom's freaking hot chocolate. Maybe she'd even take pity on me and make me toasted cheese and soup. It only tasted good when she made it for me.

No matter how I tried, I never got it quite right.

If that made me a child, then so be it. I was the youngest of the family, wasn't I?

Actually, that was a hearty nope. My toddler little sister now had that honor. However, having a toddler in the house meant my mom would definitely have dinosaur chicken nuggets and grilled cheese at the ready.

I wasn't too proud to turn that down, dammit. And I’d deserve it.

Grumbling, I stood in front of the red clown car that was in slot 47. "Hell."

I sighed and tossed my two bags into the trunk. At least the airport hadn’t lost my bags in the deboning—er, deplaning extravaganza.

Finally, one point in my favor in this doom-filled trip.

I jammed my knee under the steering wheel as I got in.

"Yep. Tracks," I muttered and clicked the seat back as far as it would go—which was about five inches less than a human male could endure.

As with everything in life, those inches mattered.

I hunched over the steering wheel as I rolled out of the parking garage into sheer bedlam. While I knew how to drive inthe snow, it was quite obvious many out here did not. Two cars were in a ditch and another three were fully turned the wrong way on the road. People were trying to pick up and escape in the same sludge of rapidly shit visibility.

The road crews were doing their best, but the snow was coming down faster than they could keep up with.

At least a flatbed tow truck was attempting to help the stranded cars.

I took it slow as possible, pulling away from the beeps of emergency vehicles and the more intense bleating honks of frustrated drivers. I just hoped that the main streets were in better shape.

All the while, the snow got heavier and harder to see through.

The only thing that saved me was that I was a good driver and well-acquainted with this route. My shoulders were tight with tension on the excruciatingly slow drive. My phone hadn’t linked up to the broken USB connection in the basest of base model cars, so I was forced to listen to chirpy Christmas music on every damn radio station, but I finally made it to the last interchange toward Crescent Cove.

“You’re doing great, Hilda. Just a few more miles." I patted the faded charcoal dash of the Chevy Versa that I’d named somewhere between the airport and Camillus, a nearby town.

Suddenly, I slid into a full three-sixty. My adrenaline spiked, my fingers holding on for dear life on the steering wheel as I pictured a snowplow pushing me off the ramp. My dad's voice thundered in my head with his instruction to turn into the spin.

Thankfully, the snowplow had continued straight on the highway and there weren't any other cars on the ramp. I blew out a slow breath when I gently rocked into the mile-high snowbank covering the guardrail.

"You're letting me down, Hilda," I said aloud to the car. "I told you that you were doing a good job, dammit."

Of course, the car didn't talk back, and the windshield wipers just squeaked with the buildup of snow. I reached out the window and scooped some of the snow off the blades before I gunned my way out of the snowbank and back onto the ramp.

It was slow going as I inched my way down the highway. I only had three more exits, but every muscle in my body ached from the drive.

Finally, a snowplow merged in front of me, and I followed right behind him on the freshly plowed road. Unfortunately, he didn't turn off with me on the exit for Crescent Cove and Kensington Square. This was much less familiar for me.