My business partner poured 420 pounds of quick-setting concrete directly into the engine bay and cargo bed of my delivery truck because he claimed it "blocked his view of the lake harbor" from our...
I borrowed Mr. Washington’s old Buick, the engine grumbling to life with a cough and a sputter. I drove frantically through the snow-choked streets, the wipers struggling against the relentless fall.
The old car skidded around a corner. The clock on the dashboard, its green numbers faint, read 2:15 AM.
My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I pushed the Buick faster, praying. Praying it wasn’t too late. Praying Elijah was still ahead.
As I topped the ridge overlooking the steep two-mile descent toward the lake highway, the world opened up in front of me. The winding road, a treacherous ribbon of white in the darkness.
Then I saw them. The twin red tail lights of the Dodge flatbed, ahead in the swirling snow, glowing like embers in the dark.
“Elijah!” I yelled into the empty cab of the Buick, my voice raw. I slammed on the horn, a desperate, futile sound that was swallowed by the storm.
The truck was picking up speed. Too fast. It was accelerating down the 12% grade, gaining momentum with every passing second. The brake lights flashed once, a bright crimson against the white snow. Then twice. They stayed bright red, burning like warning beacons—but the vehicle didn’t slow down.
It was accelerating toward the sharp turn at the bottom, a turn that led straight into the ravine.
I watched in horror as the front tires locked, turning uselessly. The heavy flatbed didn’t turn with them. It skidded sideways across the ice-slicked road, a metal behemoth out of control.
With a sickening splintering sound, it smashed through the wooden guardrail, a flimsy fence against such weight. Then, in a slow-motion nightmare, it plummeted thirty feet into the rocky creek bed below. The tail lights vanished.
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