I held the railing and waded through the snow covering the steps leading to our building. It was a slope of smooth snow. I placed my feet carefully, let them sink into the snow, and felt for the next step. On the other side of the steps, Richard’s tracks were already half filled with snow.
A plow had cleaned the parking lot an hour before. At the back of the lot was a large white lump—my Chevrolet Chevette. I opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. The covering of snow blocked all sound. It was an icy tomb. When I turned the key, I barely heard the engine cough, sputter, and stall. On the third attempt, it started. While it warmed up, I cleaned the snow and ice off my car and cleared away the bank of snow the plow had left in front.
Back in the driver’s seat, I blew on my hands, and switched on the lights. I took a deep breath and put the car into drive. My struggled up the hill, tires spinning, out of the parking lot and onto the street. I crawled through the empty city streets—two narrow, snow-covered lanes, where there used to be four. I was alone but for a few taxis, plows and emergency vehicles.
Thirty minutes later, I left the city behind and turned onto the Trans-Canada highway, which is the equivalent of an interstate highway in the USA. Back in 1987, that part of the Trans-Canada hadn’t been twinned yet. It was only two wide lanes. The only light came from my own feeble headlights. They did little to penetrate the falling snow. The snow on the highway was untouched. It was obvious, no plow or car had passed through for several hours. I was alone. The snow scraped the bottom of my car, as I plowed forward. Ahead of me were nothing but swirling flakes of snow. My headlights penetrated only a few car lengths. My only guide was the dark trees that lined the side of the highway and the flat white expanse in front of me. I steered to the center of the highway and used the darkness of the trees as my guide.
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