I saw the white dog the first time when I was five.

Tall and powerful, with thick full hair and the stance of a wolf. It was the day my father died. I looked out the hospital window, three stories up. Across the crowded parking lot. He stood at the edge of the woods and stared at me while the whoosh of the machine that kept my father breathing was steady and strong.

They asked us to step out of the room, my mother and I, and we waited in the hallway. When we went back into the room the machines were silent. We sat on either side of the bed, each of us holding one of his hands. His chest moved up and down and no one spoke. Up and down. With the time between stretching out longer. Until it didn't.

When I looked out the window again, the white dog was gone.

I'm not sure what made me think of the dog now, twenty years later. Maybe because I'm driving on an unfamiliar road that winds through the snowy woods. And I hear or imagine the distant sound of a wolf howling. It's early still, with a sky already turning gray. There's a storm moving in, but it shouldn't hit until late tonight.

I've lived in Miami for eight years. Sunshine and hot beaches. Fast boats and faster men. Men like Alexandro who I met on a hot Miami night in a hot Miami club on the dance floor. A hot young chef, already making a name for himself. And I was a business school student, hoping to land a job one day at an accounting firm. Hoping to one day not struggle as my mother and I had for years.

Mi-ran-da, he said when I told him my name, each syllable slow and deliberate, as if he were tasting an exotic flavor. I'd never particularly liked my name. But I liked when he said it.

Alexandro took me back to the restaurant that night - one that I had never been to and could not possibly afford. When he unlocked the door at 3:00 a.m. I kept waiting for an alarm to go off. For someone to stop us and tell me I didn't belong there. The door led through a storeroom into a gleaming kitchen, eerily silent. Until he began to cook for me.

A horn blares and I jerk the wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding a collision with an SUV that's traveling too fast on the snow-covered and twisting road. The driver slows as I straighten my wheels, then gives me a friendly wave and disappears down the mountain. Take a deep breath, I tell myself. I need to stay focused or I'll miss the turn. I've only been here once before and that was four years ago in the summer.

I wish for about the hundredth time that I was headed for my mom's cozy apartment in Boston. Or that we'd stayed in Miami for the holiday. But no. I was the one who insisted on the white Christmas, and Mom doesn't live in Boston anymore. Not since she fell in love with Nathaniel, a reclusive artist who lives in Vermont in the middle of nowhere and makes ridiculously sought-after wood carvings with a chainsaw. She met him at an art festival, and that was that. He's a giant of a man, with an unruly graying beard and kind eyes. And those eyes saw something in my mother that touched his soul. She found love again.

I have to be getting close. I check my GPS but dammit I can't get a signal. This never happens in Miami. Or Boston, for that matter. I should have taken an Uber, I think, then laugh at myself. I was lucky there was a rental car available at the small airport. Especially two days before Christmas. I would have preferred an actual SUV - a jeep, maybe - instead of this compact cross-over. But the woman at the counter assured me it had a brand new set of studded snow tires and could get me anywhere.

The snow seems to be falling faster now, but with no signal on my phone I can't check the weather. I'll just have to hope the report I saw several hours ago was accurate and I'll be at Nathaniel's cabin by the time the storm hits.

I come to a fork in the road and slow to a stop. I don't remember the road splitting like this. I'd driven to the cabin and back into town multiple times that summer. Of course, it all looked different when the trees were covered in green and wildflowers sprouted by the sides of the road. I must have missed the turnoff. On my left, the ground falls away steeply. There's more room on the right, but with the snowfall that's accumulated and keeps falling, I can't tell how level it is.

The coat I bought in Miami was supposed to be well-insulated, but as I step out of the car the cold air, swirling with wisps of snow, is shocking. The coat is better suited for a ski resort with the sun's rays glistening on the slopes. Here, the trees that block the sun don't extend the same favor to the wind, whipping its way through them.

There's just no space to turn around. I stomp back into the warmth of the car, shaking the snow off my boots before pulling the door shut. I debate for a moment whether it would be smarter to take the road to the left that goes down the mountain and find my way back to town. No one is expecting me to arrive until tomorrow - and with this weather prediction, they may not be expecting me at all. I reach for my phone before I remember. Right. No service.

I could stay in a motel tonight, venture back out in daylight tomorrow.

But the blizzard moving in tonight is estimated to last for several days. This might be the only window I have to get there by Christmas. And I promised. . .

The turnoff would have been to the right. So I'll take the right fork upwards and hope that this road winds its way back to a familiar landmark.

I've gone about half a mile when something comes out of the woods in a blur and then stops right in front of my car.

"Shit!" I slam on the brakes, then realize the car is just skidding on the ice and take my foot off the brake, yanking the wheel to the right. For a second the deer and I lock eyes, then it bolts across the road and disappears into the woods. I'm trying to remember if you steer in the direction of the skid, then realize no, you steer in the direction you want to go. I overcorrect and am helpless to stop the car from fishtailing. It spins completely around and faces the other direction, and for a split second I see myself tumbling over and over down the side of the mountain. The car stops, with just one rear tire off the road. I'm hyperventilating and I lean my forehead down onto the steering wheel and force myself to take slow deep breaths. There's no cliff here to plummet down. Just a shallow ditch.

I press the gas pedal slowly, trying to ease back onto the road. The car rocks forward slightly then settles back. I lift my foot off the pedal, and then try again, pressing a little more aggressively, hoping the tire will find purchase. No such luck. After a half dozen more attempts I admit this isn't working. I'm just digging myself in deeper.

I paid a mandatory fee for "winterization" at the rental counter, so maybe in addition to the studded snow tires there might be a bag of sand in the trunk. I get out again, bracing against the cold, and take a look. No sand. There's a small box marked "Emergency." Even if it does have one of those thin metallic blankets that retains heat, I might need it to keep warm so I'm not about to shove it under my tire for traction. Instead, I rummage through my suitcase and pull out a t-shirt. I stuff it tightly against the tire, then grab the emergency kit and get back into the car.

My heart sinks as I feel the wheel spinning again and in desperation I floor the gas pedal. The engine roars, and suddenly the car lurches forward and flies over the berm and across the road. I hit the brake in a panic and yank the wheel trying to get the vehicle back under control, but it's too late. The front of the hood smashes into a tree, and the airbag deploys, smacking me hard in the face and pressing me back against the seat. It deflates as I sit there, stunned and dazed, trying to get my breath. There's smoke coming out of the crumpled hood - or maybe it's just steam rising from the hot engine, partially exposed now to the frigid air.

I crack the window slightly, and hear a lone howl in the distance. Then everything is silent. I close the window again as I realize that I'm letting valuable heat escape from inside the car. And I don't know how long it will be before someone comes by.

Then it hits me. No one is coming by. No one knows I arrived today, rented a car, and headed up the mountain. I'm not expected until tomorrow night at the earliest. And I had said I might not make it until Christmas morning, depending on the flights and how quickly I could get out of the office on Christmas Eve.

Damn Scott Brinkle, the lying, thieving bastard. It's all his fault, and mine for being so compulsively detailed. Don't worry about minor discrepancies. It's only an internal audit. But those minor discrepancies were the key that unlocked the door to a much larger problem, namely embezzlement by CFO Brinkle himself to the tune of a staggering $2.3 million. Five years of siphoning off money through small payments to vendors who didn't exist and membership dues to organizations the company never joined. Seminars no one attended. Expense reports from business trips that weren't taken. And most recently and boldly - payroll checks to a remote-working employee who didn't exist.

By the time I started to unravel it and alerted my superiors at the accounting firm, my boss was already out of town for the holidays. So apparently was Brinkle, although his intention was never to come back. Our client's board of directors wanted to keep the whole thing hush hush and instructed me to do all the work necessary to tighten the noose around Brinkle so they could reach a quiet settlement that involved return of most of the pilfered funds, and Brinkle avoiding a long stay in federal prison.

A good result for our client, but it wrecked havoc on the white Christmas Alexandro had reluctantly agreed to.

His voice had been cold, his tone livid. Do you mean to tell me, Miranda, that I made arrangements to leave my restaurants during my busiest two weeks of the year and travel to Vermont with you, and now you can't go? Is there no one else who can handle this emergency?

The ache and disappointment in my heart made me fire back. My work matters too. This is important.

We hadn't been getting along recently. His long hours juggling three restaurants meant he was rarely home. My own job allowed more flexibility, but even when I was home I was preoccupied with deadlines and numbers, spending evenings hunched over my computer creating spreadsheets.

Still, his response chilled me.

Maybe you should decide exactly what your priority is. Before life decides for you.

I have this fear of abandonment. And in that moment I knew in my heart that Alexandro could and would leave me. Not just go on ahead of me for this trip, but leave me when the holiday was over. When we were over.

Later at the airport, Isabella had looked back and forth between us, her eyes large, her small hand slipping into mine. You'll be there Christmas morning, won't you Mommy? Do you promise?

Yes, I promise, I had said. And Alexandro just shook his head and walked away, pulling her after him.

I take a deep breath and turn the key in the ignition. It makes a clicking noise but the engine doesn't turn over. I try again. And again. It's not starting, and I resist the urge to keep on turning the key.

I open the emergency kit. There are a couple of those mylar emergency blankets. Astronaut blankets. Folded so tiny they'd fit in your wallet. A flashlight, bottled water. A first aid kit. A windshield scraper. Not even any flares.

I wish there were energy bars. Why didn't I pick some up at the airport? Because you weren't expecting to get lost and wreck the car. My mom is probably baking cookies right now. I close my eyes and imagine the warm sugary scent. She'd have a little apron for Isabella, and I can see them, heads bent over powdered sugar icing, stirring in drops of bright food coloring.

Alexandro is probably sipping brandy by the fire with Nathaniel. And trying to pick up a signal on his cell phone to check on his restaurants, to solve some kitchen crisis from 1,500 miles away. And if he doesn't have a signal, he's not wondering why he hasn't heard from me. It's not that there's no cell phone service here. It's just unreliable. Yesterday I had a happy conversation with Isabella. And a short, stiff one with Alexandro when I admitted I was not on the way yet, and wasn't sure when I would be.

Maybe you shouldn't bother coming at all, he'd said.

He's angry because I'm the one who wanted this trip so desperately. I'm angry because uncovering this defalcation was huge for my career and he doesn't get that my job means as much to me as his restaurants mean to him. Or maybe none of that is what this is all really about.

I try the ignition again, and it's just a dull click. The car is not going to start. If I walk back down the road I should come to the turnoff I missed, and from there I think it's only a little over a mile to the cabin.

People always say stay with your car if it breaks down in bad weather. But I can't turn on the engine, and there's a real possibility that I could freeze to death, even with the space blankets. When the blizzard hits, the roads could be impassible for days. I have no choice but to go.

I put one of the space blanket packets in the pocket of my jeans and unfold the other one, using the small scissors in the first aid kit to make a slit in the center so I can wear it like a poncho. I have my cross-body tote with me, and I put one of the water bottles in it, and then open the other and drink half before dropping it in the bag. I grab the flashlight, and leave a note explaining where I'm headed. I tie a bright scarf to the wiper so that it blows in the wind that has already picked up considerably since the last time I stepped out of the car. Maybe someone will see it.

Walking down the road feels like I'm going in the wrong direction - moving father away from the cabin, which is higher up the mountain. But my best chance of not getting lost is to find the turnoff I missed. The wind keeps lifting my "poncho," swirling it around, and I've given up trying to keep it pressed against my body. The road didn't seem this steep when I was driving, but I can't get any traction walking downhill. My nose is tingling from the cold, and I stop a moment and wrap my scarf so it covers part of my face, and tug the ski cap down further to protect my ears. What I wouldn't give now for one of the wonderful thick winter hats my grandmother use to make for me.

We lived with her after my father died. I remember a warm, sunny kitchen and homemade applesauce. A big pot of vegetable soup simmering on the stove. The colorful hats she knitted for me, sitting in her favorite chair, watching her "stories" on TV. I did my homework while the TV played in the background, and we waited for my mother to get home from work.

And I remember a day when I was 12, walking down the sidewalk after school, and stopping suddenly when I saw something on the other side of the park. How he stood there, staring across a sea of grass and gravel, seeming to look directly into my eyes. The white dog.

And I knew. I turned and ran home as fast as I could, my new red shoes slapping against the pavement, my heart pounding. I climbed the steps to the narrow row house and rushed through the door. The TV was on, and my grandmother was in her chair, her knitting resting on her lap. But she was already gone.

I don't know how far I've walked. The wind is getting stronger, warning of the blizzard to come, and when my boot hits a slick patch of ice my feet fly out from under me. I fall backwards onto my butt and start sliding, struggling to dig the heels of my boots into the snow. When I tumble to a stop, I'm at the fork in the road.

My jeans are covered in snow, and my butt feels numb. For a moment I wonder if I made the right decision. I've only come half a mile and the frigid air is stealing the breath right out of my lungs. But a blizzard is coming. The car could be buried in snow by morning. I have no choice but to move forward. I pull out the water bottle, and see bits of ice already forming around the edges. It crinkles when I hold it. The leather gloves that were so perfect for driving aren't perfect now, and I picture my grandmother knitting mittens, and smile. I recite a half-remembered prayer from my childhood, and call on my father and my grandmother to watch over me and give me the strength to keep going. I want to stop and rest, but I know that will only lead to hypothermia and a sleep I'd never wake up from.

I blink as I look ahead. There's a shape in the distance - I can't quite make it out. Then I gasp, as the form becomes more distinct. It's the white dog, appearing to me again. But why?

Then suddenly it's gone. Did I imagine it?

When I get to the place I thought it was, I see faint tracks leading off to the side, and realize it's the turnoff I've been looking for. With the snow already drifting over the opening, I could easily have missed it.

I hear a howling sound in the distance. The white dog? Wolves, more likely. I shudder slightly. But there's nothing to do but move on.

After falling twice, I look for a broken branch to use as a walking stick. Everything is harder because my feet have gone numb. My boots were better suited for building a snowman with Isabella than hiking in the driving snow. I think about lost hikers suffering frostbite on their fingers and toes, and press my one hand more firmly into my pocket, while the other grips the stick.

The numbness in my feet has crept into my thighs now and I'm afraid to stop moving lest I freeze in place like the woman in the old Bible story who looked back and was turned to stone. No, salt. A pillar of salt. I could use some right now to melt the snow.

Just as I think I can't go any further, I slip again, and reach out blindly, grabbing onto what feels like a tree but has an odd shape. As I pull myself up I realize it's the carving at the edge of Nathaniel's property, the figure of a bear standing upright, and I cry with relief. There's a narrow lane here that winds around about half a mile to the cabin. And a shorter, direct path through the trees and across a clearing. I take the shorter route, and for a second I glimpse a light flickering. A burst of adrenaline courses through me and I start to run, awkwardly and stiffly, but as fast as I can manage. The trees are sparser now and I'm almost to the clearing when suddenly the snow gets much deeper. It's in drifts here, swirling in stinging gusts. Visibility is zero. The wind screams through the trees and I open my mouth to shout but the storm swallows the sound.

A blast of air knocks me off balance and I sprawl facedown. When I push myself up my mouth is full of snow. I reach for the flashlight, but I fumble it and it disappears. My gloves are covered in ice and I can't feel my fingers.

I struggle to my feet and start walking again toward where I think the clearing is, but in all this stark whiteness I've lost my sense of direction. I could die right here, probably no more than 100 feet from the cabin. I can't see it. I can't find it. And no one will hear me call. She's only three years old, I whisper. Please help me.

For a moment the swirling whiteness seems to clear, as if the storm has paused, and I see him standing there. The white dog. There's no mistaking him this time. I sink down onto my knees. I remember how the white dog appeared when my father died, and my grandmother as well. Is it my turn to die?

My father was only 31. He didn't want to leave us either.

I bury my head in my hands as the cold steals into my body. I can't stop shivering, and I feel dizzy. Then a strange sense of calm comes over me. I just need to rest. I just need to close my eyes. I feel myself drifting. It's time to sleep.

Something's pulling at me, dragging me by the arm of my coat, and I'm bitterly cold again. I open my eyes and stare into the pale gray-blue eyes of the white dog. I feel his breath on my face.

I lean against him, pull myself up, sink my fingers into his thick fur. The dog is leading me forward, guiding me. I stumble beside him, but I can't feel my body anymore. The world is still blank whiteness. My foot hits something and I fall forward. Wood underneath the snow. I crawl up the steps and collapse onto the porch floor. And let the cold take me.

"Christ, Miranda!" Strong arms lift me and I breath in the heady scent of burning logs, and Alexandro.

"He saved me," I murmur as Alexandro carries me into the cabin, into the warmth. I look back, reaching my hand out, but the white dog is gone.

There are voices in the distance. "Oh my God, she's so pale." It's my mother. And then a deeper voice, filled with authority. "Get those clothes off her. Lay her down here."

And a voice I strain to hear, so faint, so distant, before I pass out. Is Mommy going to die?

I don't know how long I sleep, but when I wake up I'm on the couch, lying on a soft comforter with a toasty warm electric blanket on me. My feet - wrapped in the blanket - are resting on Alexandro's lap, and I'm aware of a strange almost painful tingling in my toes.

"Sweetheart, you're awake," my mom says, and begins propping pillows behind me. She kisses my forehead.

I glance down at my feet. "Frostbite?"

"No." Nathaniel gets up from his seat by the fireplace. "Just a bad case of frostnip. You'll be fine." He's wearing a pair of red long-johns, and with his graying beard and large frame he looks like Santa Claus.

My mom is urging me to sip a cup of hot tea. The room smells like fresh pine, and there's a huge live tree in the corner, strung with popcorn and cranberries, with colorful lights and an angel on top.

Isabella is standing by the couch wearing her new Christmas pajamas, watching me, her eyes large.

"What's frostnip, Mommy?"

"It means Jack Frost was nipping at my toes," I say, smiling as she climbs in beside me under the blanket.

I look at Alexandro, who is still holding my feet.

"Don't ever scare me like that again, Miranda," he says, then repeats my name exactly the way he said it the night we met. His eyes shine with love, and my own fill with tears. The long hours at the restaurants, my job at the accounting firm, the bickering of day-to-day life fade into their own insignificance, and I realize we're going to be okay.

"Mommy. Mommy." Isabella puts her hand on the side of my face, turning my head to get my attention.

"Daddy knew you were out there because Snowball told us. He went to the window and he kept scratching it."

"What?" I frown. "Who's Snowball?" I ask, wondering if my mom and Nathaniel got a cat. Then what I had mistaken for a white shaggy rug by the fireplace raises its head and stares at me with its gray-blue eyes.

"My dog, Mommy. Daddy said we can keep him."

"Wait," I say, "the dog came in with me?"

"Showed up three days ago," Nathaniel said. "Seemed friendly enough."

"And he was outside tonight?" I ask, trying to process this.

"Honey," my mom says, "of course not. We wouldn't let a dog out in this weather." And I look at the blizzard raging outside the window, hear the wind rattling the panes of glass. "He's been lying by the fireplace all day, except when Nathaniel took him on a leash to pee."

The dog rises, majestically, and walks over to the couch, rests his head on my stomach as Isabella giggles, turning to bury her face in his thick white fur.

And I look into the eyes of an old soul, watching over me.