Five miles outside Pueblo’s city limits, it began to snow – not the fluffy white stuff that makes a person think of cozy fireplaces and hot cocoa and Santa Claus, but an ugly sort that is something of a cross between snow and ice, such that it becomes sticky and attaches itself to road signs and tree branches and car windshields. Rachel cursed under her breath, turned the wipers and defroster to “HI”, hoping to keep some semblance of visibility. She hated driving in bad weather; one of her greatest fears was to become stranded, broken down in the middle of nowhere, fodder for the elements or for strangers with dark intentions.

Even as ice began to grip the outer edges of her windshield with its cold tentacles, Rachel perceived it was no longer just her circumstances or responsibilities or her brutish, controlling husband seeking to keep her from Pueblo’s…