The road down the mountain is narrow, lit only by your headlights. You steer the Montero carefully around each curve, keeping it all contained, for Rose’s sake.

                “I want Daddy!” she says for the hundredth time. The lace hem of her dress hangs in her fist. She does not understand words like separation. Her long legs kick at the dashboard. 

                You remember the way Rick looked at you when you left, how his shoulders trembled as you closed the door. “I’ll never take you back,” he said, and his eyes dulled.

                Ash trees line Partrick Road. Each turn pulls you toward possibility. You think of years wearing high heels and suits to pay the mortgage. The king-sized bed and bay windows left behind. Drinking coffee on the porch just after sunrise, the purple-blue sky of Napa Valley poised to greet you.

                Longing wraps around your arms and tugs, begging you to turn the car around, back over the summit, toward home.  

                “Eanngh!” Rose makes a noise like a wet kitten and brings lace to her lips.

                “Sweetie, it will be all right,” you say, and she grabs the wheel.

                You try to unfasten her fingers, but her grip is astounding. She jerks with all her weight. You see the curve coming. No time to correct as the car rolls. You tumble. All is still.

                The Montero sits on its left side. You feel no pain, but cannot move except for your right arm. You fumble in the dark—there is no moon tonight—your fingers touch dashboard, radio face, cigarette lighter, purse, lipstick, cell phone. The phone shakes as you lift it.

                “Rose?” You hear her breathing rapidly.

                “Daddy!” she screams.

                You place the phone between your legs and reach up for her, find an arm, a cotton sleeve, hair, face. She yelps when you touch a wet spot on her scalp. “Daddy,” she whispers.

                “Okay Rose, we’ll get Daddy.” You are feeling her legs when the phone beeps—low battery.

                Trembling, a pain beginning to throb in your left shoulder where something has you pinned, you dial Rick’s office. He always works late.

                The phone beeps again as he picks up.

                “Rick?”

                “What is it?” His voice is cold.

                “There’s been an accident. We need help. We flipped the car on Partrick Road.”

                You stare at the cracked windshield.

                “Rick?”

                The phone beeps again.

                “Rick, please. I can’t move.”

                “I’ll be right there,” he says.

                The line crackles and fuzzes. He has muffled the mouthpiece. He speaks to someone in the room with him, and you can just make it out:

                “I have to go. My wife and daughter were killed in a car accident.”

                His line clicks dead.

                You stare at the glowing cell phone. For a moment, you turn its green light on Rose hanging close above you. Her blonde hair is soaked with blood. She clutches a stained shred of lace.

                “I want Daddy!” she cries.

                The phone beeps three times and goes dark.