other, leaning hard toward the steering wheel as the threatening clouds above opened up, rain driving at the windshield. Buildings and neighborhood blocks gave way to nothingness; the unobscured, open view of the Causeway unfolded under the black clouds. He was close.
The bridge. I saw them follow me.
O liver drove as far as he could, stopped within half a mile of turning onto the Causeway. A blockade went up as he watched, disobeying the police officer who stood in the downpour, directing with his hands for cars to turn around. Another set of police cars began the process of shutting down the traffic trying to flow toward the Causeway, preventing anyone from even approaching that lane of the bridge.
His breath had caught long before he turned off the ignition. Beyond the blockade he could make out the remains of a shitty old white pickup truck. It had been pancaked into the side of the Causeway, one tire teetering precariously over the edge, a gentle nudge from dropping into the lake.
Oliver parked wherever, leaving the door to his car open as he drifted out of it, wiping the rain from his eyes only as a formality, only because he needed to see. Flares cracked to life on the road, neon red fires kindling on the pavement, doing nothing to cut through the raincloud darkness. The officer directing traffic didnât see him as he approached the yellow tape. Oliver ducked under, sneakers colliding with debris and crystalline chunks of glass that sparkled, reflecting the red flare light.
His mind tricked him into thinking it was a different white pickup truck. Of course it was. Nothing was for sure until itwas for sure. Nothing could convince him it was his dadâs truck until there was absolute proof. This was a coincidence until it was a tragedy. But he still couldnât breathe. His pulse knew what his mind refused to accept.
âWhoa, hey kid, you have to get back in your vehicle and turn around.â An officer intercepted him, a tall, thin woman with cowlike, sympathetic eyes and yellow hair. She ducked and took a closer look at him. âHey? Sir? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?â
âMy dad,â Oliver murmured, staring past her. âThatâs . . . thatâs my dadâs truck.â
âWhat? Are you sure about that?â She glanced around, at the truck and then at the ambulance and fire truck parked horizontally across the lane. âI need to see some ID, kid.â
Oliver pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed her the whole thing. He handed her his keys. He didnât trust his hands to hold anything anyway. Her grip on him loosened and Oliver continued forward, as if he had no control over his own momentum, as if the twisted-up truck had caught him in a tractor beam. Something caught on his shoe and stuck, gluey. Oliver wiggled his leg but it wouldnât come off. He stopped, watching as three drenched firemen cut away and wrenched off the truckâs folded-up door.
What was it they called that thing? The Jaws of Life?
A pale, limp hand slid into view, curled up on what was left of the passengerâs side seat. The flares crackled. The sirens all around him flickered and flickered, dying that single hand blue and then red. The officer behind him barked into her radio, asking for help, more help, more assistance, for Christâssake the guyâs kid had shown up, could she get some damn help already?
Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. That same officer.
âItâs my dad,â Oliver said, tugging against her. âItâs my dad!â He panicked, but she was strong, holding him, and soon two more officers jogged over to help her, restraining him as the EMTs hurried in after the firemen, a stretcher folded out and waiting behind them.
He didnât know what he was screaming anymore, just that he was screaming. He didnât know what he was seeing, only that his father was being taken away in pieces.
They carried
The bridge. I saw them follow me.
O liver drove as far as he could, stopped within half a mile of turning onto the Causeway. A blockade went up as he watched, disobeying the police officer who stood in the downpour, directing with his hands for cars to turn around. Another set of police cars began the process of shutting down the traffic trying to flow toward the Causeway, preventing anyone from even approaching that lane of the bridge.
His breath had caught long before he turned off the ignition. Beyond the blockade he could make out the remains of a shitty old white pickup truck. It had been pancaked into the side of the Causeway, one tire teetering precariously over the edge, a gentle nudge from dropping into the lake.
Oliver parked wherever, leaving the door to his car open as he drifted out of it, wiping the rain from his eyes only as a formality, only because he needed to see. Flares cracked to life on the road, neon red fires kindling on the pavement, doing nothing to cut through the raincloud darkness. The officer directing traffic didnât see him as he approached the yellow tape. Oliver ducked under, sneakers colliding with debris and crystalline chunks of glass that sparkled, reflecting the red flare light.
His mind tricked him into thinking it was a different white pickup truck. Of course it was. Nothing was for sure until itwas for sure. Nothing could convince him it was his dadâs truck until there was absolute proof. This was a coincidence until it was a tragedy. But he still couldnât breathe. His pulse knew what his mind refused to accept.
âWhoa, hey kid, you have to get back in your vehicle and turn around.â An officer intercepted him, a tall, thin woman with cowlike, sympathetic eyes and yellow hair. She ducked and took a closer look at him. âHey? Sir? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?â
âMy dad,â Oliver murmured, staring past her. âThatâs . . . thatâs my dadâs truck.â
âWhat? Are you sure about that?â She glanced around, at the truck and then at the ambulance and fire truck parked horizontally across the lane. âI need to see some ID, kid.â
Oliver pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed her the whole thing. He handed her his keys. He didnât trust his hands to hold anything anyway. Her grip on him loosened and Oliver continued forward, as if he had no control over his own momentum, as if the twisted-up truck had caught him in a tractor beam. Something caught on his shoe and stuck, gluey. Oliver wiggled his leg but it wouldnât come off. He stopped, watching as three drenched firemen cut away and wrenched off the truckâs folded-up door.
What was it they called that thing? The Jaws of Life?
A pale, limp hand slid into view, curled up on what was left of the passengerâs side seat. The flares crackled. The sirens all around him flickered and flickered, dying that single hand blue and then red. The officer behind him barked into her radio, asking for help, more help, more assistance, for Christâssake the guyâs kid had shown up, could she get some damn help already?
Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. That same officer.
âItâs my dad,â Oliver said, tugging against her. âItâs my dad!â He panicked, but she was strong, holding him, and soon two more officers jogged over to help her, restraining him as the EMTs hurried in after the firemen, a stretcher folded out and waiting behind them.
He didnât know what he was screaming anymore, just that he was screaming. He didnât know what he was seeing, only that his father was being taken away in pieces.
They carried
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