Post History

	In the last two hours, Stan Woodward had learned to truly hate Christmas carols.

	Just before the crash he'd been punching the buttons on the radio, trying to find a station that was playing real music. Stan had never been a fan of carols to begin with – boring, sappy tunes with as much life and energy as the roadkilled deer he'd just limped past – but he hadn't truly loathed them until tonight.

	First, you couldn't avoid them. The carols were everywhere this time of year, floating around in the air like the flu, waiting for an unwary soul to infect. And once you caught one it stayed, buzzing around your head like a mosquito. 

	And second, they were nothing like real life. 

	Stan was now fully convinced that the guy who'd written that song about the winter wonderland – it was stuck in his head right now, mocking him - had never seen snow before, except in pictures. He'd obviously never found himself lurching down a snowy, deserted road on a cold winter's night, or else he'd have written a few verses about numb toes and cold wet socks. And the guy who'd been dreaming of a white Christmas? He'd never tried to drive to work in a blizzard, much less scurry around a warehouse at 3 A.M while cursing all the idiots who'd waited until the last minute to order gifts. 

	*Yeah, let's see* him *try to pull a double shift now, when everyone else is on vacation.*

	That was the worst part. Even if his phone had survived the crash, who could he call? His leg would have to be left untreated - the doctors would all be on vacation. Probably the tow-truck drivers, too. No one sane would venture out into the cold and snow to help a foolish man with a busted leg and a wrecked car.

	Stan groaned. His leg felt like it would explode. He knew he should have stayed in the car, but he thought his leg would be able to make the trip. Since then it had swollen, straining against his pant leg. 

	*It's bleeding inside. I can feel it.*

	He knew he shouldn't sit down – it might be too hard to start walking again – but the pressure inside his shinbone was too much to bear. 

	He groaned again and slumped down in the middle of the road, straining for breath.

	At first, Stan heard no sound but the whispery hiss of the snowflakes landing and his own ragged breathing. No animals, not even a lone owl. Animals weren't stupid enough to go out in this weather, just people. *I should've been a bear. Just go to sleep when winter starts, and wake up when it's over.* 

	Sleep. Now there was a tempting thought. Stan looked up at the sky, snowflakes melting on his face. It was actually sort of peaceful, the snowy road at night. Far more than his shift would have been. It would be so easy to just lie down in the soft snow, close his eyes, and go to sleep. He had seen no other cars all night, he didn't need to worry about traffic-

	*Yeah, great idea. Until a snowplow comes along, and then I'll wind up like that deer back there.* 

	He needed to get moving again. Sitting in the road wouldn't help him get home any faster. 

	And the snow was only getting deeper.

	Stan crawled to the edge of the road, where he knew the ground was littered with fallen branches – casualties of last week's ice storm. With luck, he might find one that he could use as a crutch.

	He shivered. It was cold, and the night would only get colder. For the fifteenth time, he wished he'd stayed in his car.

	 No, he should have done more than that. He should have called in to work and pretended to be sick, but he didn't want to risk another argument with his boss. Now he had no car, one working leg, and he would probably lose his job anyway.

	He reached into the snow and pulled out a branch. *Rotten.* He tossed it aside and pulled out another. *Too short.* Another one, too thin. Another one, split.

	He shivered again. It wasn't doing any good for him to sit still. *How long is this going to take?*

	Stan glanced down at his watch. He was missing work right now... but not, he thought, *missing* it. Tonight's shift would have been brutal. Since they were short-staffed – Wanda, Alan, and Kyle were all out with the flu – the rest of them all had to pull extra hours. His co-workers were probably cursing him right now, and he knew he could expect to find a flood of angry messages from his boss when he got home. 

	Stan muttered a quick apology that his co-workers could not hear and continued his search. 

	Branch number twenty-eight looked like a solid choice. He stood up, bracing himself against the branch. *Come on. One last hill.* After that, it should be a nice, gentle slope downhill to his driveway.

	Stan set his crutch on the ground, and leaned forward-

	He spun in a clumsy half-pirouette, lost his balance, and landed facefirst in the snow. Cursing, he dragged himself into a sitting position, clutching his injured leg. All right, so he would need *two* crutches to make it home.

	Shivering and cursing, he dug through the snow, searching for another branch. He tossed the rejects over the fence as he went.

	*Thirty-eight, needs a fork. Thirty-nine, also rotten. Forty... how does a tree branch even grow like that? Forty-one... aha. We have a winner.*

	Stan hauled himself upright, leaned into his crutches and swung forward. Both branches held. He swung forward again. The branches still held.

	Step by careful step, the final hill shrank. He tried not to look up – the falling snowflakes were oddly hypnotic, and he was already tired. His arms began to ache – they were used to physical labor, but not to being a mode of transportation. But he was so close. He had less than a quarter-mile to go.

	He reached the top of the hill, made his way around the turn... and at last, he could see the light up ahead. 

	He had a fern growing on his windowsill, illuminated by a single plant light. That light promised much – warmth, a change of dry clothes, the comfort of a hot meal.
 
	For the first time all night, Stan smiled.

	When he got home he would quit – he wouldn't be able to work anyway - and take a vacation. *Someplace warm and sunny where "Jingle Bells" is outlawed.*  He did have some money stashed away, for emergencies, and this certainly qualified. And then, once his leg was better, he would find himself a new job. One where he actually got to see daylight. Last summer his daughter had offered him a job with her landscaping company. Maybe that was still open. He could ask her tomorrow – she was planning to visit him for Christmas Eve, after all. 

	He crutched on down the hill, humming a tune to himself as he went. 

	Bit by bit, it began to replace the one in his head.