Chapter 6: The Truck Door

Levi got his jeans shut and his shirt tucked in before Orlin reached the door of the bay.

I picked up a rag.

"Hip's fine," Orlin said, limping in with his cane hooked over his arm. "The doctor says it's a hip."

He looked at his grandson, and at the creeper lying on its side, and at me with a rag in my hand and a red mouth.

"Miss," he said.

"Mr. Janzen."

"Orlin."

He set his cane against the wrecker and went to the coffee pot.

He poured a cup with his back to us, and his shoulders didn't move at all.

Levi picked up the creeper.

Neither of us said a word for the rest of the day.

On Thursday, at two in the morning, a semi lay on its side in a ditch on a section road with its cab light still burning.

The driver sat on the guardrail with a thermos, unhurt.

The wind came across the open fields hard enough to push the rollback on its springs.

A harvest moon stood over the stubble, orange and low, and the whole road was lit with it.

I held the flashlight while Levi hooked the chains.

He worked in a crouch with his sleeves rolled and his breath smoking.

The driver watched him with a respect he didn't hide.

It took the better part of an hour.

When the trailer was up and the driver had signed the slip and gone, the road was empty in both directions.

Levi coiled the last chain over his shoulder and walked back to the cab.

I was standing against the driver's door.

I had been standing there for a while.

"Here," I said.

"It's two in the morning, Carla."

"I know what time it is," I said.

"You're going home in nine hours."

"I'm going to Hays in nine hours. Don't say home."

He stopped.

He dropped the chain in the gravel, and it rang.

He took one step, and then the rest of the distance, and put both hands flat on the door on either side of my head.

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