Damn snow. Gabe downshifted to second gear, slowed the Jeep
to fifteen miles an hour, swore and strained his eyes.
Through the frantic swing of the wipers on the windshield
all that could be seen was a wall of white.
No winter wonderland.
Gabriel's Angel
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By HopsonRoad - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=54631963
Winter adds an extra level of danger when a car breaks down.
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He was hungry, soaked to the skin, and afraid he would run out of
gas-petrol-before he found anything remotely like an inn or village.
In his mind he went over the map. Visualizing was a talent he'd
been born with, and he could, with little effort, reproduce every line
of the careful map his hostess had sent him.
The trouble was, it was pitch dark, the rain washed over his
windshield like a roaring river, and the wind was buffeting his car
on this godforsaken excuse for a road as if the Mercedes was a
Tinkertoy.
He wished violently for coffee.
When the road forked, Gray took his chances and guided the car
to the left. If he didn't find the inn or something like in it another ten
miles, he'd sleep in the damn car and try again in the morning.
Born in Ice