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“Slow down, girl,” Donald hissed to himself. Betty couldn’t hear him or read his mind, obviously, because she poured on the speed. Donald tried to catch up and cut her off, but she had her throttle wide open.

The Winnebago started honking, but didn’t seem to slow. Betty apparently thought it would. Sick in his soul, Donald traced the two vehicles’ trajectories—she wouldn’t make it across in time.

Betty apparently saw the same thing. She locked up the brakes. The Cat’s back end fishtailed to the right, kicking up a wave of powder in front of it. The sled lost most of its speed but still tipped. Betty hopped off as the sled flopped onto its side and kept moving. She actually landed on her feet and slid for a few yards before she fell hard. The Cat skidded along the path for another ten feet, coming to rest right at the edge of the road.

The Winnebago roared by, trailing a cloud of powder. The big vehicle slowed down, working toward a full stop on the snowy road.

Donald skidded to a halt and hopped off his sled. Betty was already sitting up. Sitting up and laughing.

“Betty, are you all right?”

She took off her helmet, black hair spilling out across the shoulders of her white snowsuit. She laughed again, then winced.

“Owww,” she said through a grimacing smile. “Oh, Daddy, I think I hurt my boo-tay.”

He heard the Winnebago come to a stop and his brother’s sled approaching. Donald didn’t care about either; he was too angry.

“Betty Jean Jewell, what the h.e.l.l were you doing?”

“Trying to beat you, of course,” Betty said. “If I could have made it in front of that RV, you would have had to pull off, and I’d win.”

“You idiot. You could have been killed.”

Betty waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, re-lax. You taught me how to dump a sled, Dad, I’m fine.”

“You’re not going on a snowmobile again, and that’s that.”

Betty’s smile faded. “Dad, seriously, I’m fine. I think you’re getting a little fired up here.”

He was losing his temper again, the same temper that had f.u.c.ked up his entire life. He took a deep breath and started to get a hold of it.

And he would have succeeded, were it not for the driver of the Winnebago.

“You stupid little brat!” the man screamed. “What kind of a stupid f.u.c.king stunt was that?”

Donald looked up. The driver—a red-bearded fat man well past middle age—had gotten out of the Winnebago and walked over. He was only ten feet away. Donald’s temper s.h.i.+fted targets in an instant, fueled by the language directed against his daughter.

“Don’t you yell at her, Dale Junior, you’re the one tearing up the road.”

“I was going the speed limit, dips.h.i.+t.”

“Daddy, please,” Betty said.

Donny didn’t hear her—he was already too far gone. “Dips.h.i.+t? I’m a dips.h.i.+t? You ever heard of a f.u.c.king brake pedal?”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Donald heard his brother’s snowmobile slow and stop.

The man pointed to the road. “You see the snow-covered pavement there, genius? You think you can stop a motor home on a dime on that?”

“Maybe you should take some driving lessons then, you p.r.i.c.k. You could have killed my daughter.”

“I could have killed her?”

“That’s what I said, numb-nuts.”