Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
After about three hours of deleting every sentence the second I write it, I begin to get into a rhythm, and I’m actually drafting some not-terrible stuff when I finally look at my watch and see that it’s already 7:30. I had meant to be home by now. I scribble a quick half page of notes to myself so I’ll know where I left off, gather my things, and go to check out the books I have on hold at the front desk.
ALL MY life I’ve had this fear—no, not really a fear. A niggling thought that my annoying brain lands on again and again. I have it when I come out of a movie theater or a concert, or when I’ve slept all weekend without hearing from anyone. It’s this thought that just maybe, when I step outside, the world as I know it will be gone and it will have been replaced by another. It’s half horror movie and half wishful thinking, but I’ve had it ever since I was a kid. I remember I had it the first morning I woke up after my mom died. I woke up and she was there. For a second. But then I remembered that she wasn’t there anymore. That I’d woken up to a world where she didn’t exist.
Now, that’s exactly what has happened. When I got into my car this morning, it was a pleasantly chilly day, one that made me glad I grabbed a hoodie. I vaguely remember that when I walked into the library the wind had kicked up a bit, but it was only a few yards into the building. Now, nine hours later, it is a world of swirling, whirling winter. There has to be at least a foot of snow on the ground and more is falling heavily, gusting against the side of the library and the few cars in the parking lot. It’s wet snow, creeping down my collar and into my nose.
I heave my bags of books onto my shoulders and trudge to my car. The snow is up to my shins and it soaks through my beat-up Vans and jeans immediately. I throw my bags into the backseat of my car and jump in, freezing. I’ll have to kick the snow away from the back of the car so I can get out of the lot, but I figure I’ll warm it up first. I turn the key in the ignition and—of course!—nothing. Crap. Thanks, car.
I figure I’ll walk home and call a cab to take me to Rex’s. It’s only a mile and a half or so to my house from here, and it’s cold, but it’s not too cold. I dig out my phone to check the time and remember that it’s still on silent from being in the library all day. When I flip it open to turn the volume back on I see I missed a call from Rex about two hours ago. He must have been calling to give me directions. I figure I’ll call to get his address when I get home, but as I’m slipping the phone back in my pocket, it rings. It’s Rex.
“Hi, Daniel,” he says. “Sorry to call again, I just wanted to give you directions to my place.”
“Um…,” I say.
“Is it—do you not want to come anymore?” he asks, sounding wary. “I mean, I understand. The snow and all.”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just. Crap, well, I’m just leaving the library to go home and I—my car won’t start. So I’m just going to walk home and then get a cab to your place, but I might be a little late. There are cabs here, right? Like, do I call a number or something?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Rex says, and the line goes dead. Well, shit.
I pull up my hood and pop the car’s to take a gander while I wait for Rex. It’s probably just a dead battery since this one’s old, but I might need a new starter. It’s hard to see anything with the snow swirling around.
“Daniel!” Rex calls from the window of a dark-colored Chevy Silverado that’s pulling up next to me.
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry, man. I would’ve been fine walking, really.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, eyes flashing. “You don’t even have a jacket. You should have waited inside.”
“I wanted to see what was up with my car.”
“I told you it was going to get cold, remember? Because I didn’t want you to be unprepared. I know you’re not used to this weather.”
I’m annoyed at him for telling me what to do, but also a little weirded out because he actually seems concerned.
“Yeah, but it’s October. I thought you were just making conversation. Like, ‘oh, the seasons are changing.’ I didn’t know you meant there was going to be a freaking snowstorm. Anyway, it’s no big deal. It probably just needs a jump,” I say, patting the hood of my car.