My mother laughed. A small, real laugh. The first sound out of her in forty minutes that wasn’t careful.
The deputy had turned and was staring down at his own shoulder like something had crawled up onto it.
“Kessler, State Two Forty-One.”
That one was crisp. Clipped. A state trooper.
“I’m up on Highway 14, and I’ve had you on scan the last half hour. Tell Shirley the State Patrol says good afternoon. Tell her she talked me through that fog in oh-eight.”
“State Two Forty-One, she copies,” Kim said. And I could hear that Kim was crying and doing her job at the exact same time.
Hiss.
“County Highway Nine. It’s Gary. Shirl, if you need a ride, I’m four miles off, and I’ve got the orange truck.”
Gary drove a snowplow. For thirty-four winters, my mother called every single plow driver in that county on the quarter hour, all night long, in every blizzard, to make sure each one of them answered. If one didn’t answer, she sent somebody. Every time.
