The Longest Ride

difficult. The inside of the car is moving in circles, and I want to reach for her hand to steady me, but I know that’s impossible. Instead, I try to remember the feel of her touch, but the sensation eludes me.

“Are you listening to me?” she asks.

I close my eyes, trying to make the dizziness stop, but it only increases, colored spirals exploding behind my eyes. “Yes,” I finally whisper, a dry rasp in the volcanic ash of my throat. My thirst claws at me with a vengeance. Worse than before. Infinitely worse. It’s been more than a day since I’ve had anything to drink, and the desire for water consumes me, growing stronger with every labored breath.

“The water bottle is here,” Ruth suddenly says to me. “I think it is on the floor by my feet.”

Her voice is soft and lilting, like a melody, and I try to latch on to the sound to avoid thinking about the obvious. “How do you know?”

“I do not know for sure. But where else can it be? It is not on the seat.”

She’s right, I think to myself. It’s likely on the floor, but there is nothing I can do to reach it. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally say in despair.

“Of course it matters. You must find a way to reach the bottle.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I’m not strong enough.”

She seems to absorb this and remains quiet for a moment. In the car, I think I hear her breathing before I realize that it is I who has begun to wheeze. The blockage in my throat has begun to form again.

“Do you remember the tornado?” she suddenly asks me. There is something in her voice imploring me to concentrate, and I try to figure out what she’s referring to. The tornado. It means nothing at first, and then, slowly, the memory begins to acquire shape and significance.

I’d been home from work for an hour when all at once the sky turned an ominous shade of grayish green. Ruth stepped outside to investigate, and I remember seizing her by the hand to drag her to the bathroom in the center of the house. It was the first tornado she’d ever experienced, and though our house was unharmed, a tree down the street had been toppled, crushing a neighbor’s car. “It was 1957,” I say. “April.”

“Yes,” she says. “That is when it happened. I am not surprised you remember. You always remember the weather, even from long ago.”

“I remember because I was frightened.”

“But you remember the weather now, too.”

“I watch the Weather Channel.”

“This is good. There are many good programs on this channel. There is sometimes much to learn.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because,” she says to me, urgency in her tone, “there is something you must remember. There is something more.”

I don’t understand what she means, and in my exhaustion, I realize I suddenly don’t care. The wheeze grows worse and I close my eyes, beginning to float on a sea of dark, undulating waves. Toward a distant horizon, away from here. Away from her.

“You have seen something interesting lately!” she shouts.

And still, I drift. Outside the car. Flying now. Under the moon and stars. The night is clearing and the wind has died, and I’m so tired I know I will sleep forever. I feel my limbs relax and lose heft.

“Ira!” she shouts, the panic in her voice rising. “There is something you must remember! It was on the Weather Channel!”

Her voice sounds far away, almost like an echo.

“A man in Sweden!” she shouts. “He had no food or water!”

Though I can barely hear her, the words somehow register. Yes, I think, and the memory, like the tornado, also begins to take shape. Umeå. Arctic Circle. Sixty-four days.

“He survived!” she shouts. She reaches for me, her hand coming to rest on my leg.

And in that moment, I stop drifting. When I open my eyes, I’m back in the car.

Buried in his car in the snow. No food or water.  

No water…  

No water…  

Ruth leans toward me, so close I can smell the delicate rose notes of her perfume. “Yes, Ira,” she says, her expression serious. “He had no water. So how did he survive? You must remember!”

I blink and my eyes feel scaly, like those of a reptile. “Snow,” I say. “He ate the snow.”

She holds my gaze and I know she is daring me to look away. “There is snow here, too,” she says. “There is snow right outside your window.”

At her words, I feel something surge inside me despite my weakness, and though I am afraid of movement, I nonetheless raise my