Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

away. Before I knew it, I was in a full-blown panic. I pushed at the windows. I tried to clamber into the front seat, which was totally counterproductive. Denny finally barked, “Zoë, please settle Enzo down!”
    She grabbed me around the neck and held me tightly. I fell against her as she lay back, and she started singing a song in my ear, one I remembered from her past, “Hello, little Enzo, so glad to see you. . . .” She had just started preschool when she learned that song. She and Eve used to sing it together. I relaxed and let her cradle me. “Hello, little Enzo, so glad to see you, too. . . .”
    I would like to tell you that I am such a master of my destiny that I contrived the entire situation, that I made myself crazy so Zoë could calm me on this trip, and thus, would be distracted from her own pain and agitation. Truth be told, however, I have to admit I was glad she was holding me; I was very afraid, and I was grateful for her care.
    The line of cars trudged steadily but slowly. Many cars were stopped on the side of the road to wait out the storm. The weather men and women on the radio said waiting would be worse, however, as the weather front was stalled, the ceiling was low, and when the warm air arrived as anticipated, the ice would turn to rain and the flooding would begin.
    When we reached the turnoff for Highway 2, there was an announcement on the radio that Blewett Pass was closed because of a jackknifed tractor-trailer rig. We would have to make a long detour to reach I-90 near George, Washington. Denny anticipated faster travel on I-90 because of its size, but it was worse, not better. The rains had begun and the median was more like a spillway than a grassy divide between east and west. Still, we continued our journey because there was little else we could do.
    After seven hours of grueling travel and still two hours away from Seattle in good driving weather, we stopped at a McDonald’s and Denny purchased food for us to eat—I got chicken nuggets—then we pressed onward to Easton.
    Outside Easton, where snow was piled on the sides of the highway, Denny stopped his car alongside dozens of other cars and trucks in the chain-up area and ventured into the freezing rain. He lay down on the pavement and installed the tire chains, which took half of an hour, and when he climbed back into the car, he was soaking wet and shivering.
    â€œThey’re going to close the pass soon,” Denny said to me and Zoë. “That trucker heard it on the radio.”
    It was nasty and horrible, snow and ice and freezing rain, but we pushed on, our little old BMW chugging up the mountain until we reached the summit where they have the ski lifts, and then everything changed. There was no snow, no ice, just rain. We rejoiced in the rain!
    Shortly, Denny stopped the car to remove the chains, which took another half hour and got him soaking again, and then we were going downhill. The windshield wipers flipped back and forth as quickly as they could, but they didn’t help much. The visibility was terrible. Denny held the wheel tightly and squinted into the darkness, and we eventually reached North Bend and then Issaquah and then the floating bridge across Lake Washington. It was near midnight—the five-hour drive having taken more than ten—when we finally pulled into our driveway at home.
    Denny carried Zoë to her room and put her to sleep. He turned on the television and we watched news reports of Snoqualmie Pass—where we had just been!—being shut down because of a rock slide that had destroyed the westbound lanes. Denny went into the bathroom and shed his wet clothes; he returned wearing sweat pants and an old T-shirt. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator and opened it. He took out his cell phone and pressed a button.
    â€œMaxwell,” Denny said after a moment. “I assume Eve is asleep?”
    He paused.
    â€œTell her we’re fine.