For ten miles, ice filled tire ruts in the road, making it damn near impossible for me to stay on the highway. When I reached a town, I pulled into the gravel lot of a post office to escape the sleet and freezing rain, expecting to park there for a few minutes until the worst of it passed. Thirty minutes later, though, it was still coming down and I was getting cold. The tiny building looked like a beacon of warmth so I decided to abandon my old Ford pickup in favor of real shelter. The fierce wind grabbed the truck’s door as soon as I opened it. As I reached for the gust-launched door, a gust caught it and slammed it against my hand; the pain took my breath away. Tucking my throbbing hand in my coat, I gripped the handle with the other hand and made my way outside without further incident, using the force of the wind to my advantage to shut the door when I was out of the vehicle.
A huge flag flying above the building whipped in the savage wind, cracking like a bullwhip each time the outer edge of the cloth snapped against the frigid gale. I dipped my head into the wind and slowly made my way up the icy sidewalk, briefly losing traction with every step, to the plate-glass entry door.
The building was tiny. Even in this godawful weather, a line of twelve people stretched from the clerk’s station, the only one available, blocking access to a couple of dozen boxes across the room. The place was ten by fifteen feet, if that.
[WHO ARE THE PEOPLE, WHY ARE THEY OUT IN THIS WEATHER? WHY AM “I” ON THE ROAD?]
