The snow began before the school buses reached the foothills.
By three in the afternoon, the highway outside the diner had disappeared beneath a white sheet so complete that the yellow centerline could no longer be seen.
By five, state patrol had closed the mountain pass.
By six, seven-year-old Lily Carter was sitting in the corner booth of the Pine Ridge Diner with both hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate while her mother stacked chairs no one expected to use again that night.
The storm had arrived faster than anyone predicted.
Wind shook the windows.
Snow pressed itself against the glass.
Every few minutes the diner sign outside disappeared completely behind blowing white, then emerged again when the wind shifted.
There were nine people inside.
Lily.
Her mother.
The cook.
The elderly diner owner.
A truck driver waiting for the pass to reopen.
Two college students stranded on their way west.
And an older married couple whose sedan had started sliding badly enough that they abandoned the idea of continuing.
Everyone had accepted they were staying for a while.
Nobody seemed particularly frightened yet.
The diner had heat.
Coffee.
Food.
A generator.
And enough blankets in the storage room to get through one night if the electricity failed.
Lily sat coloring on the back of an old menu.
She drew horses.
Mostly terrible horses.
Her mother told her they were beautiful.
Lily knew better.
Her mother was always generous about bad drawings.
Outside, the temperature continued falling.
Lily glanced at the windows whenever headlights appeared.
Almost nothing moved now.
That was why the single headlamp caught her attention.
It appeared through the snow like a yellow star.
Then vanished.
Then appeared again.
Lily leaned toward the glass.
A motorcycle.
She could barely believe it.
The machine crawled along the shoulder, rider bent forward against the wind.
The road was too dangerous for cars.
A motorcycle seemed impossible.
Lily slid out of the booth.
Her mother looked over.
“Where are you going?”
“To see.”
“Stay away from the door.”
Lily nodded.
She moved to the window instead.
The motorcycle came closer.
Black.
Large.
Touring bags covered in snow.
The rider’s shoulders looked almost as white as the road.
He passed the diner entrance by perhaps twenty yards.
Then the motorcycle wobbled.
Lily held her breath.
The rider caught it.
For another few seconds.
Then the rear tire slipped.
The motorcycle tilted.
The man jumped clear before it fell completely, but when his boots hit the ground, his legs did not seem to work properly.
He staggered.
Caught the handlebar.
Tried lifting the machine.
Could not.
He stood beside it for perhaps five seconds.
Then sank onto one knee.
Lily pressed both palms to the window.
“Mom.”
Her mother was carrying plates toward the kitchen.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“There’s a man outside.”
The truck driver looked toward the glass.
“So there is.”
Lily’s mother came over.
Everyone watched.
The biker pushed himself upright.
He took two steps toward the diner.
Stopped.
He was large.
That was the first thing people noticed.
Even bent against the wind, he looked broad through the shoulders.
Long gray hair escaped beneath a black knit cap.
A silver beard covered most of his face.
His heavy leather vest was visible beneath an open riding jacket.
Patches covered the leather.
The sight of them changed the mood in the diner.
The truck driver frowned.
The older diner owner muttered something under his breath.
One of the college students took out a phone.
Lily looked from face to face.
“What?”
Her mother touched her shoulder.
“Nothing.”
Outside, the biker took another step.