Rebekah put the Jeep into Reverse and let it inch back. It did, but jerkily: every time the wheel went through a full rotation, the entire axis seemed to drop and reset. Not knowing what to do, or ever having driven a car with a flat, she kept dabbing at the brake, hoping that the slower she went, the more control she would retain. Eventually, she was facing the exit: the muddy, uneven trail that ascended out of Simmons Gully, to the main road.
She let the car drift forward. The first part worked fine: she hit the exit, the car kept going, she applied a little gas, and – although it lurched and the slashed tyre spun – she kept moving. It was fine even as the gradient steepened: she was moving back and forth between the brake and the gas pedal, trying not to hit either too hard, the slow pace helping to offset the irregular movement of the car.
Halfway up, she hit a pothole.
Suddenly, the car felt like it dropped about thirty feet, lurching awkwardly to the right, even though the depression could only have been a tiny fraction of that. She jammed on the brake, alarmed, unnerved. It’s okay. It’s okay. She tried to calm herself by looking into the mirror, seeing the distance she’d managed, then through the windshield to the main road. She could see the change up ahead between this trail and that, the switch between brown mud and grey asphalt.
It’s okay. It’s not far.
Gently, she pressed her foot to the gas.
The wheel spun in the pothole.
She stopped, hit the brake.
Come on.
She tried again and went nowhere.
Come on, please work.
She pressed on the gas a third time.
The wheel spun, the noise like a shriek. As she glanced to either side of her, she saw the drop-off, became aware of the way the trail canted sharply into the trees. If she lurched, if the Jeep came out of the hole at any sort of angle, she would careen into the forest and drop fifty feet.
Please. This has to work.
‘This has to wor–’
Her cry was swallowed by the roar of the engine. Before she knew it, the Jeep was moving, thumping against the ruts of the track, but heading straight.
Thirty seconds later she reached the top.
As soon as she hit asphalt, she pumped the brake and stopped dead. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. Her head hurt. Her eyes went to the mirror, to the wound on her face, its rawness and ugliness, to the baby seats in the back, to the rear windshield: out the other way, the road unfurled, an arc of grey that followed the southern coastline before it bent left.
It was darker in that direction, the day fading from east to west, clouds gathering above the curve of the earth. She glanced down at the Jeep’s clock.
Almost five.
She hit the accelerator and headed for the gas station.