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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 86 cheeks were wet with tears. I tried to walk, but my knees buckled. Dad placed one arm around my back and another under my legs. He lifted me like a new lamb. Dad sped down the highway without speaking. He didn't ask why Colby had been driving the highway. He didn't ask why Colby was making a second trip. He didn't ask if I knew why Colby would be in such a hurry. I looked at the truck's speedometer. We were doing sixty-five, but the landscape was crawling. And I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing like someone had bashed me on the head. Dad turned on his headlights. I focused on the road ahead . . . focused on the white lines crawling under the truck slow as white paint dripping down a bmsh. I forced myself to breathe. I saw flashing lights-the sheriff and a tow truck. The sheriff was directing traffic with a flashlight. Dad's headlights glanced off a crumpled tmck overturned in the ditch. I saw blueberry containers, scattered and crushed. I saw a shoe. I saw Colby's sketch book, open and fluttering. "Stop," I whispered. Dad slowed. He sighed. "Sheriff will clean up. You don't need to see this." "Please stop," I begged. Dad pulled over. The sheriff came and he and Dad spoke. I jumped from the truck and ran to the wreck. The windshield was cracked. The roof was caved in. The bed was buckled. I reached for Colby's shoe but my arm drew back as my fingers Is touched leather. Cold leather. I looked for Colby's sketchbook. It was open on the other side of the ditch. I waded across, my shoes filling with water. Thorns scratched my legs. |
