scenes from a cyberpunk road story, new year's edition

Happy New Year. Here's something.

I'm fading fast in the passenger seat, watching the snow quietly bury the New England countryside, when Morgan pulls the car to the side of the road. We're somewhere in the middle of nowhere and I have no idea why we've stopped, but the change in momentum has me awake for once.

"Hey, Nora," she says. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

"It's almost midnight."

It takes me a minute to realize that's supposed to mean something. It's almost midnight on the thirty-first day of December. We've finally made it to next year.

"I didn't want to just . . . be driving," she says. "You know?" She opens the door. "I'm going to step outside, walk around. If you want to join me . . . ?"

I unfasten my seat belt and step out of the car as well. We're miles away from the nearest town, and nobody else is crazy enough to be out driving in this weather. But here we are, alone together in the woods. Once we're both outside it seems like the only light is coming from the snow, like it's glowing. Other than that it's perfectly dark, the only sound the wind blowing through the trees.

"We made it," she says. "I did not expect to survive this year."

"Yeah," I tell her.

"That's what I like about the new year. You know? It's like a finish line. All you have to do is make it to the end of December and you're done. You survived. And that's . . . sometimes that's a lot. For me, anyway. But I survived. I'm here with you. We made it."

"We made it," I tell her.

The snow keeps falling around us, and she's staring up into it like maybe she'll be able to see the moon or the stars through the clouds--or maybe she's staring at something else, something only she can see. All the ghosts and regrets from the past year.I hand her the thermos I filled at the last rest area, full of shitty coffee, and she gives me something like a smile. "I'm glad you're here," she tells me.

"Me, too," I tell her.

We pass the coffee back and forth for a while. There's something magical about drinking something hot when it's cold out, when the snow is gathering on your jacket and melting on your nose and the wind cuts right through your clothes. The new year is supposed to be cold. The cold reminds you that you're alive, that sometimes you have to keep moving to survive even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Then she quietly counts us down to midnight, because it's hard to break the stillness by raising your voice, and we whisper "happy new year" to each other, and after a moment she sings Auld Lang Syne, softly at first and then louder, more confident. And then when she's done the silence reclaims this desolate stretch of road and, with conviction, she says, "We should do this again next year.'

"You're on," I tell her.

Eventually we get back in the car--without saying anything we both agree I'll take over driving again and let her get some rest. The snow isn't letting up any time soon but it doesn't matter. Even if it takes a while, even if we can't take the direct route there, we're getting closer to where we're going, mile after weary mile.