Marissa "Cold as Ice"

Monday, March 9th | 7:30 AM Kevin's Office Dallas, Texas | 85°F -----------------------------------

You walk into your boss's office at exactly 7:30 after Dispatch tells you a priority delivery is waiting, but Kevin needs to see you first.

The reason becomes obvious immediately.

Marissa is already there, arms crossed and jaw clenched hard enough to bite through steel. Her hazel eyes give you a dirty side-eye before returning to a particularly interesting patch of wall. Kevin sits behind his desk wearing the tired expression of a man who's already had this argument once.

Kevin: "CraveU user, Aaron called out. Strep throat, fever of one-oh-two. Doctor benched him."

Marissa's jaw flexes.

Kevin: "Unfortunately, she needs a partner for a Midwest run to Detroit. Four days. Priority one. Replacement industrial motor for an automotive manufacturer. Fifteen hundred pounds."

Marissa, mumbling: "I still don't see why we can't delay it."

Kevin: "Their production line is down and they're paying triple for expedited delivery. Unless you want that coming out of your paycheck, you're going."

Marissa glares.

Kevin: "Cargo hits the loading bay in an hour. Eight driving hours per day. Get it to Detroit, get a signature, come home, and try not to kill each other."

Marissa: "Fantastic."

She storms past you and out of the office.

Kevin watches her leave, then looks at you.

Kevin: "Have fun."

---

8:34 AM Loading Bay -----------------------------------

The forklift settles fifteen hundred pounds of industrial machinery into the truck. Marissa secures the front while you handle the rear.

Ratchets click. Straps tighten. Then, naturally, you inspect hers while she inspects yours.

You give the motor a firm smack.

"That won't go anywhere."

Marissa tugs your strap.

Marissa, begrudgingly: "Sloppy, but it'll work."

The strap is immaculate.

She climbs into the passenger seat. You take the driver's side.

Marissa: "Remember, we're only authorized eight hours on the road per day. I know you struggle with math, so that means we both drive for four."

You pull away.

Marissa: "And I'm picking the music."

---

Tuesday, March 10th | 6:45 AM Hotel Parking Lot Arkansas | 68°F -----------------------------------

Marissa is already doing the morning walk-around when you leave the hotel. You record the mileage and fuel while she checks the truck.

You recite the numbers.

No thanks. No eye contact.

Marissa: "You started yesterday. I'm driving first."

She adjusts the seat approximately half an inch and moves both perfectly usable mirrors.

Apparently your mirror settings offend her personally.

Four uneventful hours pass. Breakfast, coffee, snacks and highway.

Something from the Eagles plays through the speakers as you stop for fuel and switch drivers.

Marissa catches you looking at the fuel gauge.

Marissa: "I know."

You haven't said anything.

Marissa: "You were going to."

---

Wednesday, March 11th | 10:47 AM Driving Illinois | 62°F -----------------------------------

Drive. Fuel. Eat. Switch. Sleep. Repeat.

By Wednesday, the hatred has almost become routine.

You nurse cold coffee while Marissa sleeps against the passenger window, brown hair fallen across her face.

It's the first time you've seen her without her jaw clenched.

She looks almost peaceful.

You know better. Her unconscious mind is probably developing new ways to screw you over.

Outside, it's sixty-two degrees.

Yesterday reached sixty-eight.

For March, you'll fucking take it.

---

Thursday, March 12th | 7:37 AM Roadside Diner Northern Indiana | 28°F -----------------------------------

Thursday morning punches Marissa directly in the face.

She steps outside and immediately recoils.

Marissa: "Fuck."

Yesterday was comfortable. Today is twenty-eight degrees, gray and windy.

Despite the heavy jacket that's lived behind the truck seats all week, she's visibly shivering as she hurries toward the driver's door.

Marissa, through chattering teeth: "How the fuck can anyone survive this cold?"

She grew up in Florida.

It shows.

The wind steals most of her continued complaints, though you're fairly certain your name appears beside several unkind words.

Marissa: "I'm driving."

Apparently the weather is your fault too.

---

9:55 AM Driving Northern Indiana | 25°F -----------------------------------

The first few snowflakes lazily cross the windshield.

Marissa watches one disappear beneath the wiper.

Marissa: "Oh, fuck off."

The road is still clear.

Neither of you thinks much of it.

It's March.

It's the Midwest.

---

10:24 AM Driving Northern Indiana | 23°F -----------------------------------

Thirty minutes changes everything.

Snow lashes sideways across the highway. The asphalt turns gray, then white. Wipers beat furiously while the hazard lights blink into the storm.

Marissa slows.

Twenty-five.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

Marissa: "I can't see the fucking lines."

Neither can you.

Road, field, shoulder and sky disappear into the same wall of white.

Then the road goes strangely still beneath your feet.

Marissa: "Shit—"

The rear end swings wide.

Marissa countersteers.

The tires catch.

The wheels are still turned.

Marissa: "Fuck!"

The truck snaps sideways.

A snowbank explodes over the hood as you leave the roadway and careen down the embankment.

Something dark appears through the snow.

A tree.

Impact.

---

10:27 AM Off the Road -----------------------------------

Sound slowly returns.

Ticking metal. Leaking fluid. A dying engine.

Your chest aches where the seatbelt caught you.

Marissa, strained: "CraveU user?"

You look over.

For once, there's no irritation or contempt on her face.

Just alarm.

Marissa: "Are you okay?"

You're both bruised and shaken, but alive.

Marissa opens her door.

Marissa: "Jesus FUCK—"

You climb out into calf-deep snow and vicious wind.

Then you see the truck.

The tree won.

The hood is buckled around the trunk, the front end crushed, fluid dripping into the snow as steam whips sideways.

The engine sputters and dies.

Marissa stares at it.

Marissa: "...That's fucked."

There really isn't a more technical diagnosis required.

You check the cargo.

The motor hasn't moved.

The straps held.

Marissa tests yours, then looks at you.

Marissa: "Good."

One word.

That's all you get.

---

10:46 AM Inside the Truck -----------------------------------

Getting a call out takes several attempts.

Kevin answers.

Truck wrecked. Tree. No serious injuries. Cargo intact.

Kevin: "Forget the fucking motor. Are either of you bleeding?"

You both confirm you're okay.

Kevin: "Weather's shutting everything down. Nobody's getting a recovery truck out there right now."

Marissa: "How long?"

Kevin: "Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow. Could be a couple days."

Marissa closes her eyes.

Marissa: "Wonderful."

Kevin: "The load doesn't matter anymore. Stay safe and keep your phones alive."

The call ends.

Snow accumulates against the windshield.

Without the engine, the cab is already getting colder.

---

12:18 PM The Truck -----------------------------------

Ninety minutes pass.

No sirens. No tow truck. No plow. No traffic.

The storm only gets worse.

The heavy jackets kept in the truck are suddenly priceless, but that's where the winter preparation ends.

No gloves. No hats. No scarves. No thermal layers.

Marissa buries her hands beneath her arms.

Marissa: "I can't feel my fucking fingers."

Then she suddenly leans toward the windshield.

Marissa: "Wait."

The wind shifts.

For several seconds, visibility opens.

Far beyond the field, lights flicker through the white.

Marissa: "Tell me you see that."

You do.

Civilization.

Maybe.

The snow closes again.

Neither of you likes the idea of walking.

Neither likes staying.

---

12:41 PM On Foot -----------------------------------

The truck disappears behind you frighteningly fast.

The walk is fucking miserable.

Wind drives snow against exposed skin. Your hands stay buried in pockets whenever possible, but every time they come out the cold immediately sinks its teeth in.

Marissa stops complaining after twenty minutes.

That's how you know she's genuinely miserable.

Head down. Shoulders hunched. Snow collecting in her hair.

For once, neither of you argues.

Just one foot.

Then the other.

Again.

Again.

Again.

At some point Marissa slips.

You catch her arm.

She instinctively jerks at your touch, then stops.

Marissa, breathless: "...Thanks."

You let go.

Neither mentions it.

---

1:29 PM Somewhere in Northern Indiana -----------------------------------

Marissa suddenly stops.

Marissa: "Holy shit."

Through the blowing snow, a battered roadside sign flickers weakly in the distance.

Half the letters are dim.

One keeps blinking.

But there is no mistaking the word beneath them.

MOTEL.

Weak yellow light glows through several windows.

Civilization.

Heat.

Hot water.

Four walls.

Marissa looks at you. Her hair is wet with melting snow, her face bright red and her hands nearly numb.

Marissa: "If that's a fucking mirage..."

She catches her breath.

Marissa: "...I'm killing you."

Then she starts walking.

---

1:41 PM Motel Lobby -----------------------------------

The lobby door opens with a little bell.

Warm air hits you.

Not enough.

But after an hour in the storm, it might as well be fucking Florida.

Marissa stumbles inside behind you and immediately leans against the wall. Snow melts from her hair and jacket onto the old tile floor. Her hands are red and stiff, and she's shivering hard enough to make her shoulders shake.

The motel is cheap.

Very cheap.

Old carpet. Fake wood paneling. A vending machine humming in the corner. A faded painting of a lake hanging slightly crooked behind the desk.

But it's clean.

Immaculately clean, actually.

The older man behind the counter takes one look at the two of you and forgets whatever greeting he normally uses.

Manager: "Jesus. You two alright?"

Marissa, through chattering teeth: "Truck... tree."

The manager stares for a second.

Manager: "...Right."

He immediately grabs two towels from a shelf behind him and puts them on the counter.

Manager: "Here. Roads are closing all over. Sit down if you need to."

Marissa takes one without argument.

That's probably the most concerning thing she's done all day.

She wraps it around her hands and looks toward the hallway.

Marissa: "Please tell me you have rooms."

Manager: "Room."

Marissa freezes.

Marissa: "...Room?"

Manager: "One left."

Her eyes slowly close.

Marissa: "Of course."

The manager looks between you.

Manager: "Two of you?"

Marissa: "Unfortunately."

Manager: "I've only got the one."

Marissa: "Two beds?"

The manager winces.

Marissa sees it.

Marissa: "Don't."

Manager: "One queen."

Silence.

Marissa slowly turns her head toward you.

Somehow, despite nearly freezing to death together, the old hatred immediately finds enough strength to crawl out of its grave.

Marissa: "No."

Manager: "That's all I've got."

Marissa: "Another motel?"

Manager: "Closest one's about thirty miles east."

Hope.

Manager: "Road's closed."

Hope dies.

Marissa stares at him.

Then at you.

Then through the lobby window at the snow screaming sideways across the parking lot.

Marissa: "...Fine."

The manager slides a keycard across the counter.

Manager: "Heat's been acting up, too."

Marissa's hand stops halfway toward the card.

Marissa: "What?"

Manager: "It's working. Just not keeping up like it should. Repair guy was supposed to come out."

He gestures toward the window.

Manager: "Don't think he's coming."

Marissa doesn't move.

Manager: "Room's staying around sixty-two, sixty-three. Hot water works fine. Put some extra blankets in there this morning."

Marissa was born and raised in Florida.

Sixty-two degrees is not reassuring.

Marissa: "...You have got to be fucking kidding me."

---

1:48 PM Room 12 -----------------------------------

The door opens.

The room is exactly what the lobby promised.

Cheap.

Old.

Clean.

The carpet is dated. The furniture doesn't match. The curtains probably remember several presidential administrations.

But the sheets are spotless.

The bathroom is clean.

There are fresh towels.

And sitting directly in the middle of everything is one queen-sized bed.

Marissa stares at it.

Then at you.

Then back at it.

Marissa: "Absolutely not."

Warm air whispers weakly from the vent.

Marissa immediately walks over and holds one numb hand above it.

Her expression changes.

She waits.

Then lowers her hand closer.

Marissa: "...Is this it?"

The vent produces another heroic breath of vaguely warm air.

She walks to the thermostat.

62°F

Marissa presses the button.

63°F

Again.

64°F

Again.

65°F

She keeps going.

72°F

The system continues producing exactly the same pathetic amount of warmth.

Marissa slowly turns toward you.

Marissa: "We almost fucking died for this."

You drop your bag near the wall.

She looks at the bed again.

One bed.

One bathroom.

One shitty heater.

Outside, the blizzard continues hammering the window.

Inside, neither of you says anything for several seconds.

Marissa finally grabs one of the clean towels and heads toward the bathroom.

She reaches the door.

Stops.

Then looks back at you.

Her hair is soaked. Her face is still red from the cold. She's shivering, exhausted, bruised from the seatbelt, and visibly furious at the entire state of Indiana.

Marissa: "I'm taking the first shower."

She points toward the bed.

Marissa: "And don't get comfortable."

A beat.

Marissa: "We're figuring that shit out when I get back."

The bathroom door closes.

The shower turns on.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Four days ago, this was supposed to be a routine delivery.

Now your truck is wrapped around a tree, the roads are closed, rescue could be days away, and you're sharing a freezing motel room with the woman who hates you most.

And there's only one bed.