Page 5 of Snowbound

I head to the counter and discover the coffee machine—sleek, one-pot, idiot-proof-looking. I pop it open, slot in a pod, and just as my finger hovers over the button… the lights die.

Wait. What?

The entire cabin is dark. I flick the light switch as if it might magically fix it.

Nothing.

No lights. No hum of electricity. No coffee.

A cold pit forms in my stomach as I tally up the rest of what I’m lacking, again.

No car. No signal. No power. Middle of nowhere. And me, caffeine-dependent, staring down a deadline.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve made a catastrophic error. But then, adrenaline hits.

Okay, alright, maybe this is good. No electricity, no car, no distractions. No excuses.

I ransack the cabinets and there it is, way in the back—a French press. My heart actually lifts. French press coffee is romance in a mug. Back when Jake and I first got married, it was all we drank, until he decided it was “too bitter” and “took too long.” Whatever, asshole.

I pull out the press and, miracle of miracles, there’s an unopened bag of coffee grounds. The good kind—coarse,deep brown, smelling like heaven. Thankfully, the stove is gas and lights immediately.

As the kettle heats, I lean in and breathe deep—rich, earthy, alive. The smell alone makes me feel more human.

Minutes later, I’m sitting with a mug of dark, steaming French press coffee and a delectable lemon-filled pastry from the fridge. I try not to calculate how many meals I can stretch out without resupply.

With a blanket wrapped tight around me, coffee in hand, and laptop open, I look like a stock photo of a “writer at work.”

Type. Delete.

Type. Delete.

Type. Delete.

Sob.

An hour passes, my chin in my hand, as I mentally tally the mistakes that landed me here.

Number one: marrying that loser.

Number two: trusting him.

Number three: believing a cabin in the woods could fix my shattered heart instead of turning into a slow-motion spiral of my own personal prison.

My phone pings—miracle! A message from Grace:

Grace

How’s the book going?

Whydo people ask writers that? No writer in the history of ever has wanted to answer that question truthfully. I typeback,absolutely killing it, a pure, undiluted lie, and watch as the message fails. Signal gone.

I toss the phone onto the couch like it betrayed me. Coffee refill time.

Outside, the sky shifts from quaint winter postcard to ominous snow globe. Fat flakes swirl sideways, and the wind moans around the cabin.

Maybe what I need is adifferentkind of change. Maybe I should be writing thrillers.Murder in a Cabin in the Woods—I could crank that out right now, easy. I’d name the victimJake.

I turn away from the window, then glance back, my pulse spiking.