He couldn’t possibly have made it to the road already, could he? How long had he been walking? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t brought his watch, and he’d been concentrating so hard on not thinking about the time that he’d lost all sense of everything but his thumping heart and his aching legs and back. His heart hadn’t slowed, and his muscles still burned, but for the first time since leaving the house, he thought he might have a chance. He’d made it to the road, right? That was a third of the trip. Maybe more. Of course, the road hadn’t been plowed. That would have been too much to ask for, and he’d never really been expecting it. Plowing a rarely-used road in the middle of a blizzard would have been a moronic waste of resources. Someone would drive a plow down the road when this was all over, but not for several days at least, maybe even a week. Finding a plowed road tonight would have been a miracle. He thought (and not for the first time) that he ought to get a plow for the GMC.
