Ivan Sokolov has spent the last sixteen years behind the wheel of a truck, driving along the twisting and treacherous roads that crisscross Ukraine. Over the years, he has seen many things: sunrises over deserted highways, storm clouds that loom like angry gods, and random fellow travelers hitchhiking to their destinations. He himself had hitchhiked many times, but nothing could have prepared him for what he encountered that cold winter night.

The wind howled like a ghostly shell, slamming into the side of his eighteen-wheeler as he made his way forward. The snow was falling thick and fast, covering the asphalt in a slippery white blanket. Ivan gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles white with the strain.

Early in his career, he learned that winter driving requires complete concentration. One small mistake, one moment of inattention, and the road could take another life.

The radio crackled with static. The weather service was warning drivers to stay off the highway, but it was too late for him. He muttered that his shift had been delayed, a delay at his last stop forcing him to drive late at night, tired and eager to get home. He had been driving for almost eighteen hours, and the warmth of his modest apartment in Kharkov had never seemed so welcome.

Around another turn in a deserted stretch of highway near Chernigov, the headlights picked out a figure on the side of the road. At first he thought it was a trick of light and snow, maybe a fallen branch or a discarded jacket. But as he got closer, his stomach clenched. It was a man.

Instinctively letting off the gas and turning on the hazard lights, he stopped the truck a few meters from the figure. Throwing on a thick winter coat, Ivan climbed out of the cab. His boots crunched on the fresh snow as he approached. A young woman lay before him.

She was curled into a fetal position, her body half-buried in snow, and she was motionless. Ivan crouched down next to her, his breath billowing in the frosty air. He reached out a hand, carefully brushing the snow from her face.

The girl’s skin was icy cold, her lips blue. Her long dark hair was scattered in the snow, and her clothes – a thin coat and dress – were completely unsuited to this cold. “Hey, can you hear me?” he asked, shaking her shoulder gently.

Her pulse was weak, but it was there – she was alive. There was no time to waste. Hypothermia had already set in, and if he didn’t hurry, she would not survive. He scooped her up in his arms, amazed at how light she was – almost weightless, skin and bones. Her head lay on his chest as he carried her to the truck.

Climbing into the cab, Ivan turned the heater on full blast. Laying her down in the passenger seat, he started the engine. Grabbing a blanket from the trunk, he wrapped it around her shivering body, then took out a thermos, unscrewed the lid, and held it to her lips.

“Come on, honey, take a sip!” he coaxed, trying to pour some warm tea into her. She stirred slightly, her eyelashes fluttered, but consciousness did not return. Ivan cursed quietly. He needed to take her to the hospital, and fast.