Snow Drifts in Southeast Chicago

The streets of a southeast Chicago neighbourhood that I had no business driving through were buried under thick, white sheets of snow. The car let out a single groan before dying in a ditch so deep that the doors hardly opened. My family was in a panic behind me, their words were shaking, their breaths were sharp, and every sound was like a sharp needle piercing my heart.

I pushed out into the cold, attempting to make my way through a storm that didn't give a damn about my family or destination. Then I saw them, five figures, their faces becoming more distinct with each step as they approached the car slowly. My heart rate was so loud that it felt like it might give away my fear, and the only sound in the street was the wind and blowing snow.

I dug harder with no gloves, just blustering painful frostbite fingers because I knew that the snow wasn't the true enemy, but rather my fear that I wouldn't have enough to get my family out. The cold forced that fact into my bones: they were counting on me.

The dream jolted awake just before the men got to us. I never found out what was going to happen. However, there was still a persistent fear of failing the people in the car, not of them.