His response arrived almost immediately.
ALREADY TOO LATE?
I laughed hard enough that the driver beside me looked over.
Breaker Avenue curved inland, climbed above the river, and cut through thick forest before dropping toward Bellweather Marina. Utility trucks crawled in both directions, amber lights turning slowly through the rain.
I ate half the sandwich while listening to a podcast that passed through my head without leaving a trace.
The road rose.
Fog gathered between the trees. Tall firs moved in the wind, their crowns bending together like a dark tide.
Brake lights appeared through the mist.
A county maintenance truck had stopped in the opposite lane. Two workers in reflective jackets stood beside a fallen limb, waving traffic through one direction at a time.
I waited.
My phone illuminated on the passenger seat.
DON’T LEAVE THE THERMAL CAMERA IN THE VAN.
I glanced at the padded case on the floor.
As though I forgot equipment.
One of the workers raised his sign and waved me forward.
I eased around the branch and continued uphill.
The podcast ended. “Low Tide Morning” began as the road climbed, its first guitar notes almost lost beneath the rain. The loose lid on my travel mug tapped softly against the cup holder.
Beyond the next bend, the road narrowed between a wall of rock and a ravine. Stormwater streamed across the asphalt. Gravel snapped beneath the tires.
The warning sign appeared first.
FALLEN ROCK.
Then I saw the flatbed truck descending toward me.
Steel pipe lay stacked in long bundles across its trailer. The driver was moving carefully, but the rear wheels began sliding on the wet grade.
He corrected.
The trailer swung wider.
A sharp crack split the air.
One of the chains securing the load broke.
The pipes shifted together.
For one impossible heartbeat, the entire bundle seemed weightless.
Then the top layer spilled.
I slammed the brake pedal down.
