A pair of wide headlights cut through the dark, throwing long shadows of the pines across the drifts. The grinding roar of a heavy engine grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of metal.
A yellow road-grader slowed to a halt, its massive steel blade scraping the packed ice. The heavy door of the high cab swung open, releasing a draft of warm air that smelled of diesel and hot metal.
“Get in before you freeze,” a voice called down from the high seat.
I climbed the metal steps, dragging the heavy diaper bag behind me, and sank into the vinyl passenger seat. The driver pulled the lever to close the door, then rubbed his calloused palms together.
“I am Keith,” he said, his eyes staying on the dark road ahead as he shifted the heavy machine into gear.
“I am Ellen,” I said. “My partner locked the cabin door.”
Keith did not ask any questions, but his jaw tightened as he steered the grader down the mountain.
“We are going to the clinic in Silverton,” he said.
“He will realize his mistake soon,” I said, looking out at the black pines. “He was just stressed about the business audit.”
Keith kept his eyes on the yellow light of the high beams bouncing off the snowbanks.
“A closed door does not open itself from the outside,” Keith said.
“We had a disagreement about the baby’s schedule,” I said, twisting the silver band on my finger.
“A road doesn’t care about disagreements,” Keith said, his monotone voice barely rising above the rattle of the grader’s engine. “It just gets covered.”
“He will come looking for us once he calms down,” I said.
Keith did not reply, his large hands steady on the steering wheel as we rumbled down the steep grade toward the valley floor.
The Silverton Clinic was a low brick building next to the sheriff’s office. Under the bright white lamps of the waiting room, a nurse in green scrubs took my baby from my arms.
She laid him on a stainless steel scale and began unwrapping the fleece layers.
