The Journal

Six • Maeve • March 8

I was up in time to see the sunrise—which wasn't super early, since it's winter—and we traded the cozy home for my dad's truck soon after. The gravel road hadn't had time to get too icy, and in four wheel drive it was fine. The highway was a slightly different matter. The ditches had filled with crested snow dunes, making it extremely difficult to see where the edge of the road was. Dad stuck mainly to what he thought was the centre just in case. Although I knew he was a good driver, I couldn't help but hold onto the seat with white knuckles. Driving in winter conditions has always made me nervous. I remember one winter, years ago, when my best friend, O.J., had been in a car accident with her parents. She had been fine, but her dad had stayed in the hospital for weeks afterwards. Their family relied on both parents having an income, and it was hard for everyone. I recall my mother having me help her make freezer meals to bring over to their house, and how devastated O.J. had looked, and I knew that if I had been in her situation, I would not have been as strong as her. Eventually, her dad made a full recovery, and life went back to normal. But still, the haunting idea would visit me in nightmares, the thoughts of never seeing my mom or dad again scaring me into their bed at night.

We did not see any other cars driving for almost an hour. At forty-three minutes in the car, three minutes and one hill away from the town, one snow truck was pushing away diligently at the piling white powder. I waved as we passed, and then we were over the small hill and entered into the even smaller town. The drugstore was located in the centre, and we were at the far West end.

As we continued through, the town remained quiet and dead. An old dirty grocery bag was stuck in the snow while the exposed corner of it whipped in the breeze. Some loose snow was picked up by the wind and carried like a solid wave until it hit our car, dispersing back into a billion harmless snowflakes. The radio played softly in the background, the music too cheery and upbeat for the cold winter stillness outside the windows. I thought this wasn't unusual for a Thursday morning, until my dad commented.

"Seems awfully...muffled, don't you think?" he asked as we pulled into a parking spot in front of the drug store.

"Doesn't it always?" I hopped out, onto freshly shovelled pavement, and stepped up to the drug store. The little bell rang as the door opened for me and my dad who followed shortly after. The store was eerily quiet with only what could be described as typical elevator music that was coming from two speakers on either corner of the small room. I walked around the short shelving units, seeing if there was anything else we might need. Advil, cold and flu teas, two bottles of generic painkillers, a new First Aid kit...

Another bell rang. I jumped out of my skin, spinning only to see my dad with his hand raised over the bell at the prescription desk. There was some shuffling and a grunt before someone walked out from the back room behind the desk. A grey-haired small wiry man with huge glasses greeted us.

"Sorry I didn't hear you come in! I must be losing my hearing," he laughed, "what can I help you with today?"

"I'm just here to get some prescriptions for my daughter," Dad said, showing the man the doctor's note of proof.

"Ah, and how many were you wanting?"

"Three months?" I said, coming up to the counter and setting the items I had found down. "Their expiry date lasts that long right?"

"Let's see how many I have," the small man, whose name according to the Manager tag on his shirt was Rob, scurried into the back room and came back moments later with three boxes. "They'll still work at full power for another four months from now."

"Thanks," I smiled as Dad paid for our things and we left the store.

As I stood outside, I did notice what Dad was talking about when he said the town appeared more muffled than usual. If this were a normal winter day, you would be able to see more people in the stores and restaurants, but today almost everything appeared empty.