Goal.

The windows fog with the breath from their lungs; the heat is running on high, but the cold is too strong. The road is unfurling before them like a black carpet with lines painted down the center.

They'd held their hands tightly together, once upon a time, before the dry age of time. Before they had set into movement, like a snake: quietly shedding its skin. Memories die, like the leaves from the barren trees surrounding the road, had done only months before. The engine is like a lion's roar in the silence of the night. The moon reflects from their eyes the death of hope, like an oft-done chore.

Their breathing becomes labored, as the cold increases: cracks in the windows speak louder than any words could to describe the numbness overcoming their bodies. They say, in union, "Should this frame break, we still have the wheels turning upon the ground to keep us moving onward; inspite of what is left, inspite of what's broken down."

The engine carries them forward, the visible path becomes murky, as the moon reflects upon the surface of the pavement: making all that perceive it see but a sheet of silver and white. They shield their eyes against the brightness, and lose track of where their vessel was bound. The wheels lose their grip upon the road... and find their way into the snow.

"Where ever the road may take us," they spoke, in union, unknowingly lost, "we still have our ties binding us to what we'll have and to what has not yet been lost."

They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is too far, already, for this ride. They shiver at the same instant: both seeing, now, just how far off track they have come.

Their hands held tightly together, fused into one makeshift fist: their free hands grabbing the wheel- turning, urging; straining and pulling it. The weight of the fear pushes their wheels into the snow; the traction is gone, and they've got nowhere left to go. The weight of the fear pushes their hearts into the snow: they've got no purpose other than each other; no true place to call their home.

They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is already too far, for this ride. They see, now, just how far they've gone away from their intentions. Whatever their intentions may have once been: wherever their intended destination once was. Their hearts are sinking in the snow; drowning.

"We'll be here, together," they swear to each other, "we'll be here, no matter which way this river flows."

"We'll be here, together, despite the loss of direction; despite the depth of the snow. We have the moon to guide us, if need be, through the unknown. We still have our wits, and our eyes, to show: no matter how far off this path we drift- there is no certainty that we are lost, no truth in the lying light reflected from the soul."

The wheels find pavement once again. Their faith is rewarded with holy charity. The way they'd known is picked up...their path is shown. The light of the moon reflects upon the Earth; and their eyes once more see their goals.