The first snowflake hit the RV windshield as my daughter’s voice pierced my consciousness: "Mommy, look! Snow angels falling!"
I jolted upright. Outside, swirling white drifted through stalled highway traffic. Three hours trapped already. My husband John snored heavily in the driver's seat.
A sharp whine cut from the back: "Joohhn? How much longer? I feel faint..."

John startled awake, face lighting up with instant devotion. "Sarah! Em, boil water—now. Fix Sarah some noodles. She’s eating for two."
Word for word. His voice unlocked the nightmare—the frozen corpse of my daughter, the shove down the ravine.
I Was Reborn.
This RV was my inheritance, bought with the last of my parents’ savings. Yet in the death-storm ahead, they’d use it as a coffin for my children.
"Emily!" John’s grip bit into my forearm. "Get moving! Sarah needs food."
I met his glare, ice settling in my veins. "My migraine’s splitting my skull. Fix it yourself."

Sarah slithered forward, pressing a hand to her perfectly round bump. "It’s alright... I shouldn’t be a burden." Her eyes glistened. "If only my husband weren’t locked up, I’d never impose—"
"Don’t say that!" John rounded on me. "Small-town folks stick together. She’s the one making things awkward!"
They’d tag-teamed driving while Sarah napped in luxury. She was exhausted?
Old Emily would’ve exploded. New Emily calculated ounces of protein, days of fuel.

I forced concern. "Instant noodles? For the baby? All that MSG..." I met Sarah’s eyes. "Rest stop’s only twenty miles. Hot soup. Vegetables. Real nutrition."
Sarah pouted, stroking her belly like a prop. "Twenty miles could take hours in this..." Her gaze snagged on my supply cabinet. "You bought snacks, didn’t you? Chips? Just one bag?"
John yanked the cabinet open—jars of peanut butter, jerky, my children’s emergency rations. "See! Selfish! Ethan, hand Aunt Sarah those salt-and-vinegar chips!"
My son glanced between us, betrayal flickering. "Mom is stingy..."
I caught Ethan’s wrist. "Listen to your mother," I said softly but with steel. "Those aren’t for us. They’re for when help comes—police, rescuers. We share then."
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. Before she could protest, snow slapped hard against the windows.
"Joohnn!" Sarah’s voice brightened with false innocence. "It’s a winter wonderland! Let’s go build a snowman! I haven’t played in snow since I was six!"
My blood froze.
Last time, this was when they gave my daughter pneumonia.