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It was a treacherous stretch of road, potholed and corrugated, tortured by too many Newfoundland winters, It seemed to go on forever, past craggy outcroppings, sheer drop-offs into swirling jetties and dirty plowed mounds of crusted snow. In most places it appeared as though it would be impossible to pass another car even if he encountered one. For the record, he hadn't. As he thought about it, he realized that he hadn't seen any other signs of life since he left the outskirts of Two Portsat least not anything that walked upright. Who counts trees? |
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The windshield wipers were working overtime. Big, exquisitely contoured flakes were |
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