Anya Olsen — In Car

Because sometimes, Anya Olsen learned, you don’t find the way out by knowing where you are. You find it by getting out of the car and starting to walk.

She got out. The air smelled of sap and dry earth. She popped the hood, stared at the incomprehensible tangle of wires and hoses, and felt a humiliating sting behind her eyes. She knew nothing about engines. She knew about spreadsheets, about lease agreements, about the correct way to fold a napkin for a place setting. None of that helped here.

Panic, a cold little spider, began to crawl up her spine. anya olsen in car

“Okay,” she whispered to the empty car. “Think.”

As she stepped out of the car, the panic spider finally stopped crawling. It didn't disappear, but it curled up and went to sleep. She had a plan. Because sometimes, Anya Olsen learned, you don’t find

She was two hours from her sister’s wedding rehearsal. The one she was already late for. The one where she was the maid of honor.

She took a breath. First, she gathered everything she had: a half-empty bottle of water, a granola bar, a dusty car charger (useless without a car), and a road atlas from 2019. She turned on the dome light—the battery wasn’t completely dead yet, just too weak to turn the engine. Then she opened the atlas. The nearest town, Miller’s Crossing, was twelve miles back. A long walk, but possible. The air smelled of sap and dry earth

Later, at the reception, someone asked Anya about the adventure. She just smiled and shook her head. “It was nothing,” she said. “Just a car.”