Instead, I opened my car door and stepped into the storm. I told myself I was checking in case someone needed help. That was the rational explanation. The deeper truth was uglier and more honest — I needed to prove I wasn’t the weak one. I needed to prove I could be the one who steps forward.
The wind hit me like a physical blow. It stole the air from my mouth and shoved against my body with violent force. Snow reached nearly to my knees. My right leg stepped forward strong and steady. My left followed slower, stiff and resistant, dragging slightly through the heavy drift. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. Every movement burned.
My hip protested. My thigh muscles trembled from overcompensating. The van didn’t seem to get any closer. My eyelashes collected ice. My cheeks went numb. Halfway there, my bad leg buckled and I nearly collapsed face-first into the snow.
“You’re not breaking,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
When I finally reached the rear doors, I leaned my weight against the metal just to stay upright. My lungs burned. My pulse pounded in my ears louder than the wind. I grabbed the handle. It wasn’t locked.
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