now tilted at a thirty-degree angle.
Jennifer's first impulse, a defensive one, was to blame Maureen. But Maureen didn't seem to fault Jennifer for their current predicament; she seemed weirdly detached, or at peace with their newly befucked circumstances.
Maureen smiled. "I guess we're walking," she said.
Where was the question. They were at least five miles from the gang-bang store. They'd passed no houses. Where was on the tip of Jennifer's tongue, still unspoken, when, in the rearview mirror, a light flashed. Jennifer turned to see where the light was coming from, but she couldn't see it. There was nothing in the woods but b l ackness and snow. She turned back to the rearview mirror. She saw it again. The light, unmistakable.
"Look," Maureen said, pointing at the mirror.
The light disappeared again but they walked uproad anyway, assuming they would find a driveway, and hopefully a house. After half hour of trudging through the six inches of snow (which quickly became eight inches, nine inches, ten) Jennifer wanted to turn back. In the car there was wine, and corn chips and limited heat. They had a half tank of gas, which would probably last them a few hours. They had lots of clothes plus both their bridesmaid dresses, each zipped in its own individual thick plastic bag that might even work as a tent or windbreaker. Helen had wanted them to bring the bridesmaid dresses to the Cascades because, she'd said coyly, I have a fun idea. The bridesmaid dresses were white, which Jennifer thought peculiar, but Helen assured her it was very an courant in the hipper bridal circles.
But they should return to the car. They wouldn't freeze. Probably, at least, they wouldn't freeze. And they wouldn't have to spend thc night with some isolation-loony local, who might or might not decide to kill his family and whomever else was available for killing that night.
Jennifer was about to suggest that they return to the car, when Maureen pointed to the left and quickened her pace.
Jennifer squinted. She couldn't see anything but Maureen, hopping up and down beside something.
It was a waist-high pole. Atop it--a tiny log cabin. "We found it!" Maureen said.
Maureen practically ran up the driveway, energized by their incredible luck. Jennifcr tromped behind her. She did not feel lucky or saved; she felt strangely endangered by their accidental discovery. She had never been a lucky person, for one. And she mistrusted easy solutions to problems. This miraculously easy solution seemed worthy of scrutiny. But her sense of unease was quashed by a new wave of Irritation toward Helen, inspired by the twee, snow-smothered log cabin. Though most of Helcn's collection was in storage, she kept a five-story Victorian dollhouse (mauve clapboards, plum gingerbread trim, truly hideous, in Jennifer's opinion) on the dining room table in her small Seattle apartment, the back glassed-off, the dolls within engaged for cryogenic eternity in moronic dollhouse tasks: Sweeping. Sleeping. Staring at a fake bowl of soup. Jennifer fantasized about removing a the glass backs and putting the mother naked on the toilet, forcing the father into a missionary sex position with the daughter on the dining room table. Helen would catch Jennifer staring at the dollhouses malevolently, and she would pinch her arm and say to her, You're so adorable! I just want to squash you up and put you in one of my dollhouses!
By the time Jennifer reached the top of the driveway, Maureen was already knocking on the door of an old log cabin. ON. No way was this Scott's family's new ski house. This made her feel both better and worse. It was a coincidence about the mini log cabin, a bizarre coincidence, nothing more.
"This isn't Scott's place," Jennifer said.
She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. What the fuck? She looked. Nothing. But in her peripheral vision she saw a woman in a white dress, running. Again she turned her head. Again, nothing, just gusts of snow threading
Jennifer's first impulse, a defensive one, was to blame Maureen. But Maureen didn't seem to fault Jennifer for their current predicament; she seemed weirdly detached, or at peace with their newly befucked circumstances.
Maureen smiled. "I guess we're walking," she said.
Where was the question. They were at least five miles from the gang-bang store. They'd passed no houses. Where was on the tip of Jennifer's tongue, still unspoken, when, in the rearview mirror, a light flashed. Jennifer turned to see where the light was coming from, but she couldn't see it. There was nothing in the woods but b l ackness and snow. She turned back to the rearview mirror. She saw it again. The light, unmistakable.
"Look," Maureen said, pointing at the mirror.
The light disappeared again but they walked uproad anyway, assuming they would find a driveway, and hopefully a house. After half hour of trudging through the six inches of snow (which quickly became eight inches, nine inches, ten) Jennifer wanted to turn back. In the car there was wine, and corn chips and limited heat. They had a half tank of gas, which would probably last them a few hours. They had lots of clothes plus both their bridesmaid dresses, each zipped in its own individual thick plastic bag that might even work as a tent or windbreaker. Helen had wanted them to bring the bridesmaid dresses to the Cascades because, she'd said coyly, I have a fun idea. The bridesmaid dresses were white, which Jennifer thought peculiar, but Helen assured her it was very an courant in the hipper bridal circles.
But they should return to the car. They wouldn't freeze. Probably, at least, they wouldn't freeze. And they wouldn't have to spend thc night with some isolation-loony local, who might or might not decide to kill his family and whomever else was available for killing that night.
Jennifer was about to suggest that they return to the car, when Maureen pointed to the left and quickened her pace.
Jennifer squinted. She couldn't see anything but Maureen, hopping up and down beside something.
It was a waist-high pole. Atop it--a tiny log cabin. "We found it!" Maureen said.
Maureen practically ran up the driveway, energized by their incredible luck. Jennifcr tromped behind her. She did not feel lucky or saved; she felt strangely endangered by their accidental discovery. She had never been a lucky person, for one. And she mistrusted easy solutions to problems. This miraculously easy solution seemed worthy of scrutiny. But her sense of unease was quashed by a new wave of Irritation toward Helen, inspired by the twee, snow-smothered log cabin. Though most of Helcn's collection was in storage, she kept a five-story Victorian dollhouse (mauve clapboards, plum gingerbread trim, truly hideous, in Jennifer's opinion) on the dining room table in her small Seattle apartment, the back glassed-off, the dolls within engaged for cryogenic eternity in moronic dollhouse tasks: Sweeping. Sleeping. Staring at a fake bowl of soup. Jennifer fantasized about removing a the glass backs and putting the mother naked on the toilet, forcing the father into a missionary sex position with the daughter on the dining room table. Helen would catch Jennifer staring at the dollhouses malevolently, and she would pinch her arm and say to her, You're so adorable! I just want to squash you up and put you in one of my dollhouses!
By the time Jennifer reached the top of the driveway, Maureen was already knocking on the door of an old log cabin. ON. No way was this Scott's family's new ski house. This made her feel both better and worse. It was a coincidence about the mini log cabin, a bizarre coincidence, nothing more.
"This isn't Scott's place," Jennifer said.
She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. What the fuck? She looked. Nothing. But in her peripheral vision she saw a woman in a white dress, running. Again she turned her head. Again, nothing, just gusts of snow threading
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