It was an almost gentle accident. Twenty-two cars on the black ice clacking together before pirouetting off the highway into the fields on either side. Now they sit like sleeping huskies, drifts slowly rising over them. It’s thirty below. The injured and those that checked on them have retreated into the warmth of still-running cars to wait. Exhaust billows up here and there marking their places. Only Paul is still outside, ducked down behind his open trunk. Wool hat, no coat. He empties package after package of cocaine into the wind, watching it snake away across the blank page of the plain. He crunches the plastic wrappings deep under the snow with his foot as the lights and sirens crawl nearer. It is the last of his money, the last of his investment, vanishing into nothing. He wonders if he is pale enough to walk into the storm himself and disappear the same way.