Alan barely had time to shut the passenger door before his boot hit a patch of hidden ice. His legs flew out from under him, and he slammed into the ground with a sickening thud. The pain was instant—blinding, electric—shooting through his lower back like a knife made of fire.
He lay stunned, face buried in snow, unable to breathe for a moment. When he tried to move, white-hot agony seized his spine. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. The cat was barely alive, the pups shivering in the backseat—and he was broken, helpless, discarded by the storm.
He cried out, but the wind snatched the sound from his throat. “Help!” he screamed again, hoarse, frantic—but it was like yelling into a void. Snow swirled violently around him. His phone—the only lifeline—sat locked inside the car, glowing faintly on the dashboard. Just meters away. Yet unreachable.
Tears pricked his eyes—not from the pain, but from the raw, suffocating helplessness. If he didn’t move, the cat would die. So would he. He forced his elbows under him, gasping. Each breath stabbed. Every nerve rebelled. But he dragged himself forward—one agonizing inch at a time—because he had to.