Sammy the Snowplough Driver's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

The blade scraped something that didn't feel like asphalt or ice. Sammy eased off the throttle and let the plough roll forward a few more feet before stopping. He climbed out into the cold, boots sinking into powder up to his shins. The snow had buried a cabin. Not just covered it — swallowed it whole. Only the peak of the roof showed now, wood dark with age and moisture. A door lay on its side in the drift, hinges rusted and broken, like someone had torn it off and thrown it there. Sammy knelt and brushed snow from the frame. The wood was soft under his glove, ready to fall apart. No smoke from a chimney. No footprints. Whoever lived here had left a long time ago, or never left at all. Something glinted near the doorframe. He pulled it free from the ice — a pocket watch on a frozen chain, the face cracked and stopped at ten past three. The metal burned cold through his glove. He turned it over. No name. No inscription. Just a timepiece that had stopped counting. He slipped it into his coat pocket and stood, looking at the cabin half-buried in the road he was trying to clear. He couldn't plough through it. The structure would collapse, and if anyone was still inside — even after all this time — he couldn't risk it. He'd have to mark it, radio it in, and take the long route around to finish the side roads. It would cost him two hours, maybe three. The school bus wouldn't wait. But he pulled a cone from the truck bed and planted it in the snow beside the cabin anyway, then climbed back into the cab. The engine was still running. He shifted into reverse and started looking for another way through.