But he didn’t stop. He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. The windshield wipers could barely keep up. Snow hammered against the glass like fists, and the narrow country road vanished every few seconds beneath a swirl of white.
Raymond leaned forward in his seat, squinting, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His back throbbed with every bump in the road. Whatever he’d done when he fell, it wasn’t minor. But there was no time to think about that now.
The pig lay bundled in the truck bed, unmoving but breathing. The tiny creature was curled beside him in the passenger seat, wrapped in Raymond’s old wool coat, its breath fogging faintly against the window.
“Just hang in there,” Raymond murmured. “We’re close.” He took the long curve on Hollow Creek Road too fast—he knew it the moment the tires lost traction. The truck shuddered. The rear end began to slide. Trees blurred past his window.