Meg stumbled along and kept reminding herself how well she knew this road and how many times she’d taken that path to the barn. “Please God, help my feet find that path,” she prayed into her shirt, pulled up over her nose and mouth. She figured the chance was better to notice any difference in the surface under her boots if she walked along the edge of the ditch. Wait, had that been it? She didn’t turn around, just backed up, not wanting to lose her sense of perspective or direction. The swirling snow made it so she couldn’t see past her knees, but there was a smoothness that told her feet this was different than the uneven footing on the side of the ditch. She took a chance and turned into the wind.
All she could do was bend forward or be blown back. It wasn’t a matter of picking up and moving one foot forward at a time. Dragging each foot forward was all she could manage, and she had to let go of her shirt, exposing her face to the abuse of the wind and driving snow. Meg tried to keep her mouth closed to breathe, but every third or fourth breath, it felt like her lungs were being pulled out from inside of her and she had to stop and get air again. She wasn’t making any progress at all. She was shivering violently. Keep going, she told herself over and over.