Free Rearview by Mike Dellosso

line dividing two tectonic plates on the earth’s crust, ran from roof to hood and parted the glass into two equal halves. Snow accumulated quickly, forming a white, glistening wall that blocked out the rest of the world. Dan nearly expected a hand to swish it away and the face of Death, all snaggleteeth and greasy hair, to appear on the other side, peering in at him, lips pulled back in a grim smile. When the snow remained undisturbed, he relaxed a bit and rubbed his jaw.
    The beeping stopped momentarily, then started up again. It came from somewhere outside the vehicle, in the land of snow and cold. Dan pushed open the driver’s door and stepped out into the storm. The frigid air went through him and stung his bones, froze his marrow. The front of the car sat squarely against a mature pine.
    A man’s voice called to him from up the hill. “Hey, you there.”
    Dan squinted into the wall of snow and could just make out the faint outline of a man, lean build, black suit. Thomas Constant. No doubt come to taunt Dan about his driving ability and remind him of his waning time.
    â€œWhat do you want with me?” Dan hollered. He wiped snow from his eyelashes and looked again. Only this time he saw more clearly that the man forty feet above him on the hill was not Constant at all but an elderly man in a thick coat standing beside a pickup.
    The stranger waved an arm. “Hey, you okay?” His voice grew faint as a gust of wind swept it away and buried it somewhere in the falling snow.
    Dan waved back. “Okay here.”
    After retrieving the keys from the ignition, he shut the door and made his way up the hill. It wasn’t tremendously steep but finding traction in the freshly fallen snow was as difficult as climbing a ladder with both feet tied together. Slowly he advanced, using his feet and hands to pull himself forward. At the midway point a rope landed in front of him, a lifeline from above. Looking up and through the snow, he could see his rescuer more clearly now, standing beside a green pickup.
    â€œGrab hold. I’ll pull you up.”
    Dan took the rope in both hands and got to his feet. Inch by inch, step by step, the stranger pulled him along, as if he were scaling the walls of a snowy grave. Wind buffeted his face, and snow blinded his eyes. Unseen hands grabbed at his ankles and feet, refusing them traction. His hands quickly took to aching, then went numb. Then his lungs burned as if the air contained not harmless microscopic crystals of ice but jagged shards of glass. Finally the terrain leveled and Dan went to his knees, gasping for breath and rubbing his oxygen-starved muscles.
    An old pickup was there—an early eighties model Ford with peeling paint, rust around the wheel wells and bumper—and an older man bundled in a red plaid wool coat, gloves, a scarf, and a heavy skullcap. A wiry, white beard covered the lower half of his face. Dan had long ago stopped believing in Santa Claus, but the kind, aged eyes looking at him could have changed his mind.
    â€œYou okay, mister? You look like you just fell off a ten-story building.”
    Dan waved his hand, caught his breath. “I’m fine.”
    The stranger grabbed Dan under the arm and lifted. “Well, let’s get you up and in the warm truck. Gotta get you to a hospital.”
    Dan stood and shook his head. “No. I don’t need a hospital.” He pushed back his sleeve and glanced at his watch—3:50. “I need to get to New York.”
    â€œCity?”
    â€œYes.”
    The man looked up the road, then turned his face skyward. Snow landed on his beard, rested for a second, then melted. “In this storm?”
    â€œPlease, I have to get to New York. It’s . . . it’s an emergency.”
    He looked Dan over top to feet. “Looks like it.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œWell . . .” He paused, eyed the storm again, and moved his lips like he was