Stones Read Online Free PDF Page A

blobs in the fog of snow, then fishtailed my way up the long hill north of the alley. Completely unnerved by then, I decided to get off the highway at the Third Concession, if I could find it.
    I knew that the concession road hooked up with the Old Barrie Road, which I could follow into Orillia. There were farms all along the route, so I wouldn’t be trapped or isolated if the roads proved to be impassable.
    I pushed on. The radio said that almost a meter of snow had fallen in the last three hours. The heater fan roared, the wipers flapped frantically, barely able to keep ahead of the snow, my hands ached from gripping the wheel, my neck and shoulders were stiff from tension.
    The van began to slither around like an eel as it pushed through the deepening snow, steadily losing traction. Without warning, it shied sideways when the rear wheels broke free. I eased off the gas, almost out of control, as the van tried to swap ends. It lurched to the right, and the steering wheel whipped from my hands. The van dipped forward, then a huge black shape loomed ahead, seeming to rise up out of the whirling blanket of white. I hit the brakes too late and heard a dull metallic crunch. My body pitched forward and I felt my breath whoosh out as the seat belt yanked against my chest.
    The engine stalled. I forced myself to take a deep breath. The left headlight had smashed in the collision with what looked like a stone wall that rose to the height of the windshield. The right headlight tore a tunnel through the thicket of snow, revealing nothing.
    When I had my breathing under control I started the van and tried to back out onto theroad. The rear wheels spun uselessly. I tried rocking the van back and forward, switching rapidly from Reverse to Drive. I got nowhere. Cursing, I shut off the engine. Over the tick of the cooling motor the howling wind told me I had a serious challenge on my hands, stranded until daylight or until the snow stopped and a plow came by. In my mind I ran a check on the items in what Dad called the disaster kit we keep behind the seat: an anorak, boots, hat, mitts, a cold-weather sleeping bag, matches, a flashlight. I opened the glove compartment and took out the cell phone. With a cheerful beep and a blinking black triangle in the display window, it told me the battery was dead.
    I was in deep trouble. Sitting in the van for hours with the engine running was not an option, unless I wanted to gas myself to death. Neither was flirting with hypothermia. I turned off the headlights and the night closed in around me.
    I reached behind the seat, unzipped the canvas bag and lifted out the flashlight, a long tubular model like the ones cops use. Shining it through the windshield was impossible. The glass threw the light back, making my eyes smart in the glare. I rolled down the doorwindow, stuck my arm into the freezing wind, playing the flashlight beam back and forth. Snow swirled into the cab. The light revealed a structure made of large stones and mortar.
    The icy wind quickly coated the inside of the windshield with condensation, which immediately froze. I stuck my head out the window, swept back and forth with the light again. Let there be a house or something nearby, I whispered. The gusts rose and fell, buffeting the van, stinging my face with snow, numbing my hands.
    Then I saw something. Something that flashed whiter than the snow, a broken outline of an octagon. A stop sign.
    I pulled my arm, now caked with snow, inside and rolled up the window. By now I could see my breath. I pulled the disaster kit from behind the seat, telling myself I’d be all right, turning my options over in my mind as I pulled on a wool toque, a goose-down vest and waterproof anorak, and heavy felt-lined boots. I stuffed the wool-lined leather mitts into the pockets of the anorak.
    A stop sign indicated a crossroads. Four corners often meant buildings, but there were no lights, not even a glimmer in the wall of flyingsnow. Probably the