stranded

The snow kept falling. Pretty soon it would cover their tracks.
That wasn’t good. They’d left the car, the safety of the car, because they’d die if they didn’t, which was an irony he understood only too, too well. The flakes were getting smaller, icier, it seemed. Instead of falling silently, they made a sound, now, tinny, clinking, something, some sort of sound that was clearly different from soundlessly. He turned. Mollie was 15 feet back. She usually was stronger than him. He knew that. But she didn’t look good. He stopped, waited. “We’ll be okay, babe,” he said. She carried Oliver against her chest. Ollie was 18 months. Their first. “I’ll take Ollie,” he said. She looked into his eyes and said, “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” He tried to look away, but couldn’t. “Tell me,” she said. “We’ll be okay,” he said. The snow was falling heavier, now. “We’ll be okay,” he repeated. He checked his watch – 4:13 p.m. In half an hour, darkness would fall.