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Will Rebecca survive?

David Gane
David Gane
2 min read
Photo by Anatoliy Shostak

The biting snow and prairie wind stung Rebecca’s face, and the knee-high drifts made it hard to walk. Yet, she knew this was nothing compared to how pissed her dad would be when he found out she messed up his snowmobile.

The trashed vehicle was no longer visible through the swirling blizzard, nor was the barbed wire fence that had violently yanked the machine out from underneath her. Yet, despite the fear of facing her father, she also knew that if she didn’t find shelter soon, the cold and her exhaustion would soon get the best of her.

But where the hell was she?

She’d passed the Sandowski’s farmyard only minutes before she’d crashed, so that meant the Morrison’s place should be straight ahead. If she kept moving across the field, she’d run smack-dab into the granaries that skirted their yard.

She pressed on and plowed deep rows through the gathering snowbanks. The ground beneath her feet was unstable, and she stumbled to her knees.

Crouched, with her head low, she felt cocooned and warm, safe from the raging storm. Maybe she could wait it out right here, then tomorrow, after it had passed, she’d make her way home. Or perhaps her dad would come rescue her.

She considered this and snuck a peek behind her and realized that any trace of her path had been wiped clean by the drifting snow.

If she stayed here any longer, she’d be buried and by the time anyone found her, she’d be a popsicle. She dragged herself up and pushed forward.

Walking was treacherous, and she could no longer see anything through the swirling whiteout.

Why hadn’t she reached the Morrison’s yet?

She tripped again and toppled to the ground, but this time a sharp pain shot through her right forearm.

She lifted it. Shit, it was definitely sprained. But what had she hit it against?

She swept away the path in front of her and discovered the polished steel of the train tracks.

How could that be? They weren’t anywhere near the Morrison’s farm—unless she had overshot their place—which meant she was less than a quarter-mile from home.

She pulled herself up and trudged along the rails until the faint glow of their yard lights appeared. She ran through the ditch and up the driveway. It wasn’t until she saw the house that the fear returned about what her dad would say about the crash.

Hopefully, he’d forgive her for the wrecked snowmobile, since she didn’t die out in this blizzard.

There was only one way to find out.

She climbed the steps and pushed her way inside.

Fast Fiction

David Gane Twitter

Co-writer of the Shepherd and Wolfe young adult mysteries, the internationally award-winning series, and teacher of storytelling and screenwriting.


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