Distinctly Montana Magazine

33 w w w. d i s t i n c t l y m o n t a n a . c o m mentary heating system that labored to warm a poorly insulated cab, a hand-operated wind- shield wiper, and a flimsy cloth top. For a while the driving was bad, but nothing Fran- cis couldn't handle. But then, ever cocky, he made an ill-advised turn, thinking to use an old wagon trail as a shortcut, perhaps in an attempt to mitigate weather that was getting worse by the second. Shortly, the snow devel- oped into a blizzard. Before he knew it, he couldn't see the road. Let's be honest, it wasn't much of a road in the first place. Rounding a curve, he hit a snowdrift and went into reverse, thinking he'd drive around it. What he couldn't see, in the thickening snowfall and dim- ming sunset, was that the car was perched on the edge of a 12-foot embankment. As he reversed, the car slipped, one of the wheels caught, and the car flipped upside down. Francis, lying in a shattered pile of glass shards, candy and tinsel, was pinned underneath, a jagged edge of bone jutting from a badly broken leg. In shock, very likely concussed, he managed to use the remains of a wooden crate to craft a splint for the break. He couldn't stand for long, but he could crawl, dragging the leg be- hind him, and so he did, setting out for the closest shel- ter that he thought he might have a shot at finding in the snow, an abandoned shack belonging to a man named Percy Wilson. He set out, painfully, interminably, toward his only chance at shelter, a fire, any possibility of ever seeing Amanda again. Could he have fired his gun, and in so doing attract- ed the notice of would-be rescu- ers? Perhaps, except that in his confusion he hadn't brought it with him. It was still in the wreck. Maybe he cursed himself for that, once he remembered. He probably also knew that there was a good chance that no one would hear the shots, not out here. Ev- eryone was at home with their family, having dinner and singing songs. But the time would probably come, sooner or later, when he wished he'd brought that pistol. He made it halfway to the shack, and roughly halfway to Amanda, before realizing he couldn't go on. Knowing there were a lot of ways to die out here, and no ways to survive, he must have recognized that his choices were few. That freedom he had been intent on savoring had been reduced, with every drop of blood into the snow, until all that remained was the freedom to choose how to die. The easiest would be, simply, to wait. The cold would surely do it for him, and maybe soon. Hypothermia had FRANCIS, LYING IN A SHATTERED PILE OF GLASS SHARDS, CANDY AND TINSEL, WAS PINNED, A JAGGED EDGE OF BONE JUTTING FROM A BADLY BROKEN LEG.

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