"Mile Marker 42":
I was behind the wheel of my old Freightliner, a beat-up rig with over a million miles on it, hauling a load of steel pipes stacked high in the trailer. The weight was close to 80,000 pounds, and I could feel the strain every time I shifted gears. The engine growled, a low rumble that vibrated through the cab, and the dashboard lights flickered like they were ready to give up. I’d been driving for nearly ten hours, my eyes stinging from staring at the endless stretch of highway ahead. The road was Route 17, a lonely two-lane cut through fields and thick woods, miles from any town. The only sounds were the hum of the tires, the creak of the trailer, and the faint crackle of my CB radio, which hadn’t picked up a clear signal in hours.
Earlier that day, I’d stopped at a greasy diner for a quick coffee and a burger. Two truckers were at the counter, their voices carrying over the clink of dishes. One was an older guy, gray beard, weathered hands wrapped around a mug. The other was younger, maybe new to the game, his cap still crisp and clean.
“Watch yourself on Route 17,” the older guy said, stirring his coffee. “Had a buddy break down there last month. Middle of nowhere, and it wasn’t just the truck that gave him trouble.”
The younger driver leaned in, curious. “What do you mean?”
The older guy glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Some folks out there… they watch for stranded rigs. Not the kind who help. They wait for guys like us to get stuck, then they show up. Had a friend who swore someone tried to get into his cab while he was waiting for a tow.”
The younger guy laughed nervously. “You’re messing with me.”
“Nope,” the older guy said, his eyes serious. “Cops found his truck, but he was gone. Never heard from him again.”
I sipped my coffee, pretending not to listen, but a chill ran through me. I’d driven Route 17 plenty of times. It was remote, sure, but I’d never had trouble. Still, the story stuck with me as I paid my bill and headed back to my rig. Truckers tell tall tales all the time, but something about the way he said it felt too real.
Now, hours later, I was deep into Route 17, the road stretching out like a black ribbon under my headlights. The woods on either side were dense, their branches clawing at the sky. No streetlights, no houses, just me and the truck. I checked my phone—still no signal. The CB was useless too, spitting out nothing but static. I turned the dial, hoping to catch a voice, but it was like the world had gone quiet.
Then it happened. A loud bang erupted from under the hood, sharp as a gunshot. The truck lurched hard, and I gripped the wheel as it started to slow. Smoke poured out, thick and acrid, curling up into the night. I eased the rig onto the shoulder, my heart pounding like a drum. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died, leaving me in silence except for the faint ticking of cooling metal and the distant rustle of leaves.
I sat there, hands still on the wheel, trying to keep my breathing steady. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Just a breakdown. Happens all the time.” But out here, alone, it didn’t feel like just anything. I grabbed my phone again—no bars, not even a flicker of hope. I tried the CB, turning the knob slowly. “This is a driver on Route 17, mile marker 42. I’m broke down. Anyone copy?”
Static. I tried again, louder. “Anyone out there? I’m on 17, mile marker 42. Need a tow.”
Nothing. Just the hiss of the radio mocking me.
I stepped out of the cab, my boots crunching on the gravel shoulder. The air was thick, pressing against my skin. I popped the hood, and a cloud of smoke hit me, stinging my eyes. I waved it away, shining my flashlight into the engine. I’m no mechanic, but even I could see it was bad—maybe a blown head gasket or a busted fuel line. The smell of burnt oil was strong, and I knew this wasn’t a quick fix. I’d need a tow, but with no signal, I was stuck.
That’s when I heard it. A faint crunch, like footsteps on gravel, coming from behind the trailer. My stomach dropped. I turned, shining my flashlight toward the sound, but the beam only caught the edge of the trailer and the dark shapes of the woods beyond. “Hello?” I called, my voice shaking. “Anyone there?”
Silence. Then another crunch, closer this time, deliberate. My pulse spiked, and I backed toward the cab, keeping the light trained on the darkness. The diner conversation flashed in my mind—they watch for stranded rigs. I climbed back into the cab and slammed the door, locking it with a loud click. My hands were trembling as I grabbed the flashlight again, sweeping the beam out the windows. Nothing. Just the road, the woods, and the looming shape of my trailer.
I told myself it was an animal. A deer, a raccoon, something harmless. But then I saw it—a glint in the woods, like eyes catching the light. I froze, my breath hitching. The glint vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving me staring at empty trees. I fumbled the flashlight, dropping it to the floor with a clatter. When I picked it up and shone it again, the woods were still.
Minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last. I kept the flashlight moving, checking the mirrors, the windows, the road. My heart wouldn’t slow down. Then, a sharp knock on the passenger door made me jump so hard I hit my knee on the dash. I swung the light over and saw a man standing there, his face half-hidden in shadow. He wore a worn jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. He tapped the glass again, harder.
“Hey, you okay?” he called, his voice muffled but calm. Too calm. “Saw your truck stopped.”
I didn’t answer right away. My gut screamed that something was off. His posture, the way he stood so still, the fact that he’d appeared out of nowhere—it didn’t add up. “I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Waiting for a tow.”
He stepped closer, his face pressing near the glass. I could see his eyes now, narrow and unblinking. “No signal out here,” he said. “Happens a lot. I got a car up the road. Can give you a lift to town.”
Every instinct told me to stay put. I noticed his hands when he pulled one from his pocket to tap the window again—grimy, with dark stains under the nails. Dirt, maybe. Or blood. My throat tightened. “No thanks,” I said, my voice firmer. “I’ll wait.”
He didn’t move. Just stood there, staring. “Ain’t safe out here alone,” he said, his voice dropping, almost a whisper. “You never know who’s around.”
My heart was hammering so loud I thought he could hear it. I reached under the seat, my fingers closing around the cold metal of my tire iron. “I said I’m fine,” I repeated, louder, holding the iron where he could see it.
He smiled—a slow, crooked grin that made my skin crawl. “Suit yourself,” he said, raising his hands like he meant no harm. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the darkness. I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore, my hands shaking so bad I could barely hold the flashlight.
I locked the doors again, double-checking each one. My mind raced. Who was he? Where did he come from? There were no other cars on the road, no houses nearby. I tried the CB again, desperate. “This is a driver on Route 17, mile marker 42. I’m broke down. Need help. There’s a guy out here acting strange.”
Static. I kept trying, my voice cracking. “Please, anyone, I need help.”
Finally, a voice broke through, faint but clear. “Driver on 17, this is Smokey. I copy. What’s your situation?”
Relief hit me like a wave. “Engine’s dead,” I said. “Mile marker 42. And there’s a guy… he came out of nowhere, offered me a ride. Didn’t feel right.”
“Stay in your cab,” Smokey said, his voice steady but urgent. “Lock the doors. I’m about twenty-five minutes out with a tow. I’ll flash my lights three times when I get there. You got something to protect yourself?”
I glanced at the tire iron. “Yeah.”
“Good. Don’t open the door for anyone else. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks.”
The wait was agony. Every sound made my heart lurch—a twig snapping, leaves rustling, the faint crunch of gravel. I kept the flashlight sweeping, checking the mirrors, the windows, the woods. Once, I swore I saw movement near the trailer, a shadow slipping behind it. I blinked, and it was gone. My imagination, I told myself, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I thought about the diner story again. Cops found his truck, but he was gone. My mouth went dry. I checked my phone again—still no signal. The CB stayed quiet. I gripped the tire iron tighter, my knuckles white. The silence was worse than any noise, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Then, another sound—a low scrape, like metal on metal, coming from the trailer. I froze, listening. It came again, slow and deliberate, like someone was dragging something along the side. I shone the flashlight out the window, but the angle was wrong; I couldn’t see the trailer’s side. My heart was in my throat. I wanted to call out, to demand who was there, but my voice wouldn’t come.
The scraping stopped, replaced by footsteps again, circling the trailer. I held my breath, tracking the sound as it moved from the back to the driver’s side. I pressed myself against the seat, clutching the tire iron, ready to swing if the door opened. The footsteps paused right outside my door. I waited, every muscle tensed, but nothing happened. No knock, no voice, just silence.
Minutes later, headlights appeared in the distance. I watched, barely breathing, as a tow truck rolled up. The driver flashed his lights three times, just like he promised. I let out a shaky breath and unlocked the door, my hands still trembling.
“You the one who called?” the tow driver asked, climbing out. He was older, with a kind face and a Smokey Bear hat pulled low. His overalls were stained with grease, and he carried a clipboard.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Thank you for coming.”
He glanced around, his eyes scanning the darkness. “You said there was a guy?”
I nodded, pointing toward the woods. “He was here, offered me a ride. Had a bad feeling about him.”
The driver’s face tightened. “You did right staying put. This stretch of 17… it’s got a reputation. Folks have gone missing out here. Cops been looking into it for years, but they don’t find much. No tracks, no evidence. Just empty trucks sometimes.”
My stomach churned. “Missing?”
“Yeah,” he said, hooking up the tow cables to my rig. “Last year, they found a semi a few miles from here. Driver was gone, cab locked from the inside. No sign of a struggle, just… gone.”
I swallowed hard, my eyes darting to the woods. “What do you think it is?”
He shrugged, but his expression was grim. “Could be thieves, could be worse. Out here, no one hears you yell. Let’s get you out of here before anything else shows up.”
As he worked, I kept watch, the flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle a step closer. When the tow was ready, I climbed into the tow truck’s cab, still clutching the tire iron. The driver didn’t comment, just started the engine and pulled onto the road.
As we drove away, I kept looking back at my rig, its dark shape fading into the night. I thought I saw something move near the trailer, a figure stepping out from the woods, but the tow truck’s lights swept over it, and it was gone. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe.
I never drove Route 17 again. The shop fixed my truck—a blown fuel line, they said—but the fear stayed with me. Every time I’m on a quiet road, I hear those footsteps, see that crooked smile. I keep my CB tuned now, my phone charged, and a new tire iron under the seat. I don’t know who that man was or what he wanted, but I know one thing: I’m lucky I didn’t find out.
"Midnight Breakdown on Route 17":
I’m hauling a load of fresh produce down a deserted highway, the kind where the road seems to vanish into the dark beyond my headlights. My semi-truck’s engine rumbles steady, but my eyelids are heavy, fighting the monotony of endless yellow lines. The dashboard clock glows 2:17 AM, and I’m on my third cup of cold coffee, the bitter taste barely keeping me alert. I’ve been driving for hours, alone with the hum of the tires and the occasional crackle of the CB radio. Then, a deafening bang shatters the quiet. The truck lurches violently to the right, the steering wheel jerking in my hands. My heart slams against my ribs as I wrestle the rig to the shoulder, tires crunching on loose gravel. I cut the engine, and silence swallows me whole.
I sit for a moment, breath shallow, hands trembling on the wheel. My pulse is loud in my ears. I grab my flashlight from the glove box, its weight reassuring, and step out. The air’s cool, and my boots scuff the dirt as I circle the truck. The front right tire is a mess—shredded rubber hangs in jagged strips, the rim bent and useless. My stomach sinks. No spare tire for a rig this size, and my phone’s screen shows no bars, no signal. I’m stranded on Route 17, mile marker 82, miles from the nearest town. The highway stretches empty in both directions, a black ribbon under the starless sky.
Back in the cab, I lock the doors and try the CB radio. “This is truck 472, got a breakdown on Route 17, mile marker 82. Anyone copy?” Static hisses back, mocking me. I try again, voice tighter. “Anyone out there? Need assistance, blown tire.” Nothing but crackling white noise. I slam the mic down, frustration mixing with fear. I’m alone out here, no help coming anytime soon.
I lean back, scanning the darkness through the windshield. The headlights carve out a small circle of light, but beyond that, it’s pitch black. Something moves in the bushes across the road—a faint rustle, like dry leaves scraping together. I freeze, straining my ears. Just the wind, I tell myself, but my hands are clammy. Then it comes again, louder, heavier, like something big shifting through the underbrush. A low growl rumbles, deep and guttural, sending a chill down my spine. My heart’s pounding now, and I fumble for the flashlight, clicking it on. I aim the beam at the bushes, and two yellow eyes stare back, glowing like coins in the dark. They’re low to the ground, unblinking. My breath catches.
I keep the light trained on those eyes, but they don’t move. “Stay calm,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Just an animal.” But what kind? A coyote? A wolf? I’ve heard stories from other truckers—bears circling rigs, mountain lions stalking the lonely roads. My mind races with images of teeth and claws. I click off the flashlight, hoping the thing will lose interest and slink away. The cab feels smaller, the air thicker, like I’m trapped in a metal box.
A sudden thud slams against the side of the truck, hard enough to make the whole rig shudder. I jump, the flashlight slipping from my hands and clattering under the seat. Another thud, closer to the door, followed by a slow, deliberate scraping, like claws dragging across metal. My mouth’s dry, and I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. I don’t dare reach for the flashlight, afraid any movement might draw attention. The growling’s louder now, right outside the door. I can’t see those eyes anymore, but I feel watched, like something’s circling, waiting.
I’m frozen, barely breathing, when headlights pierce the darkness, coming from the opposite direction. Relief floods me, but it’s fleeting. A beat-up pickup truck pulls up, slowing to a crawl before stopping a few yards away. Its engine idles, low and uneven, and a man steps out. He’s tall, lanky, wearing a faded jacket and a baseball cap pulled low, shadowing his face. He moves toward my truck, hands in his pockets, steps slow and deliberate. My gut twists—something about him feels off, but I’m desperate for help.
He stops by my window and knocks twice, sharp and loud. I flinch, then crack the window an inch, just enough to hear him. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough but steady, like he’s used to talking over engines.
“Tire blew out,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “No signal to call for help. You got a phone?”
He shakes his head, squinting at the shredded tire. “No service out here. Happens a lot. Need some help? Got tools in my truck, could patch you up enough to limp to a shop.”
I study him, my heart still racing from the growls. His offer sounds kind, but his eyes keep flicking to the side, like he’s scanning the bushes. “Thanks,” I say, hesitating, “but I’ll wait for a tow. Don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all,” he says, stepping closer. His hands are still in his pockets, and I can’t see what he’s holding. “Road’s dangerous this time of night. You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His tone’s too pushy, and a cold prickle runs down my neck.
“I’m fine,” I say, firmer. “Got a CB. Help’s on the way.” It’s a lie, but I hope it sounds convincing.
He stares at me, silent, then flashes a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Suit yourself. I’ll be over there if you change your mind.” He jerks his thumb toward his truck and walks back, but he doesn’t get in. He leans against the hood, arms crossed, watching me. His silhouette is sharp against the headlights, and I can’t shake the feeling he’s waiting for something.
The growling starts again, closer, near the trailer now. My hands shake as I reach under the seat, fishing for the flashlight. I find it, but my fingers brush something else—a tire iron, cold and heavy. I pull it out, clutching it like a lifeline. If that animal gets bold, I’ll need something to swing. Another scrape echoes, long and slow, along the trailer’s side. My pulse is hammering, and I’m sweating despite the cool air seeping through the cracked window.
The man’s still there, unmoving, his cap tilted low. I’m trapped, caught between whatever’s lurking in the dark and this stranger who won’t leave. Minutes crawl by, each one heavier than the last. The growling stops, and the silence is worse, thick with dread. Then, a sharp bang rocks the trailer, like something heavy slammed into it. I stifle a yell, gripping the tire iron tighter. The man’s head snaps toward the sound, and he pulls something from his pocket. It glints in the headlights—a knife, small but sharp. My stomach drops.
“Hey!” I shout through the window, voice cracking. “What’s back there? You see something?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks toward the trailer, out of my sight, his footsteps crunching on gravel. I hear a low whistle, sharp and deliberate, like he’s calling something. My mind’s spinning—did he see the animal? Is he luring it? Or is he up to something worse? I’m trapped in the cab, no way to run, no way to know what’s happening.
More headlights cut through the dark, brighter this time. A tow truck rumbles up, its yellow beacon flashing. I exhale, relief washing over me, but my hands are still shaking. The tow driver, a stocky woman with a ponytail and a clipboard, steps out. She glances at the pickup as the man hurries back to it. He tosses something into the cab and peels out, tires screeching, leaving a cloud of dust.
“You okay?” the tow driver asks, walking over. Her flashlight sweeps the ground, landing on my shredded tire. “Saw that guy take off. Looked like he was in a hurry.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice unsteady. “He offered to help, but… something wasn’t right.”
She nods, her face serious. “Folks like that hang around these roads sometimes. Not all of ’em mean well.” She kneels by the trailer, inspecting the damage. “Found this,” she says, holding up a worn leather wallet. “Was on the ground back there. Must’ve dropped it.”
She flips it open, and her expression hardens. “This ID… I’ve seen this guy’s name before. Local news, couple months back. Linked to some assaults out here, targeting stranded drivers.” She looks at me, eyes narrowing. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”
My blood runs cold. “He was standing right there,” I whisper, pointing to where the pickup was parked. My hands are still clutching the tire iron, and I can’t let go.
“Let’s get you hooked up,” she says, tucking the wallet into her pocket. “I’ll radio the cops about this guy. They’ll want to know.” She starts working on the truck, her tools clanking as she attaches the tow hook. I climb out, legs shaky, and glance at the bushes. No yellow eyes, no growls, but the hair on my neck’s still standing up.
As she secures the rig, I notice scratches on the trailer’s side—long, deep gouges, like something big dragged its claws across the metal. My stomach twists. Was it the animal? Or did that man do something while he was back there? I don’t ask. I just want to leave.
The tow driver’s radio crackles as she talks to dispatch, mentioning the wallet and the man’s ID. I climb into the tow truck’s cab, still holding the tire iron. The highway stretches dark and endless, and I can’t shake the feeling something’s out there, watching, waiting. The tow driver slides into the driver’s seat, her clipboard on the dash.
“Ready to get out of here?” she asks, starting the engine.
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Let’s go.” My voice is barely steady. As we pull away, the rig trailing behind us, I swear I hear that low growl again, faint in the distance. I don’t look back.
"The Curve on Route 17":
I was behind the wheel of my 1990 Peterbilt, hauling a flatbed loaded with steel beams, a hefty 80,000 pounds dragging behind me. The delivery was due by morning, and I’d been driving for hours, the hum of the engine my only company. This route was familiar—hundreds of trips down these roads, each curve and dip etched into my memory. But tonight felt different, like a shadow hanging over me, making my skin prickle. My dashboard clock glowed 11:47 PM, and the highway stretched out, dark and lonely.
Earlier that day, at a rest stop just past a small town, I’d done my usual walk-around. The truck was old but reliable, though the brakes felt spongy when I tested them. I pumped the pedal a few times, watched the pressure gauge flicker, and figured it was just air in the lines. I bled them quick, and the pedal firmed up enough to satisfy me. A mechanic’s shop was hours away, and I didn’t want to lose time on a tight schedule. I told myself it was fine, but a knot in my gut whispered otherwise. I ignored it, climbed back into the cab, and hit the road. That was my first mistake.
The highway was narrow here, flanked by a dense forest on the left, trees packed so tight they swallowed the moonlight. On the right, a steep drop-off led to a river below, its water glinting faintly when my headlights caught it. The road was quiet, no other trucks or cars for miles, which wasn’t unusual this late. My CB radio had been silent for a while, the usual chatter of drivers absent, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I tried to shake the unease, turning up the radio to a scratchy country station, but it didn’t help.
I was approaching a sharp curve, one I knew well. It was tricky even in good conditions, with a flimsy guardrail separating the road from that drop. I eased off the gas and pressed the brake pedal to slow down. Nothing happened. My foot sank to the floor, no resistance, no slowing. My heart lurched, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I pumped the pedal again, harder, willing it to catch. The truck kept rolling, the heavy load pushing me faster toward the curve.
I grabbed the CB mic, my hand shaking. “Hey, anybody out there?” My voice came out high, tight with fear. “I’m on Route 17, near the river drop. Brakes are gone! Anyone hear me?”
Static hissed, then a voice broke through, faint but steady. “This is Tom, I’m a few miles back. Where you at on 17? You okay?”
“No brakes!” I shouted, my eyes locked on the road. The curve was closing in, the guardrail gleaming in my headlights. “I’m heading into that sharp turn by the river. Got 80,000 pounds behind me. I’m not slowing!”
Tom’s voice tightened. “Hang on, buddy. Try downshifting slow. There’s a runaway ramp a mile past that curve. Can you make it?”
I didn’t answer. My hands were slick with sweat, slipping on the steering wheel. I tried downshifting, easing the gearshift to avoid grinding, but the engine screamed, the gears resisting under the strain of the load. The trailer groaned, the steel beams creaking like they were alive, shifting just enough to make the truck sway. The curve was seconds away now, the guardrail so close I could see rust flaking off its edges. Beyond it, the drop-off loomed, a black abyss leading to the river’s rocky bed.
My mind flashed to my daughter, Lily, back home. She was six, with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. I’d promised to call her before bed, tell her a story about the road. The thought of her waiting, clutching her stuffed bear, made my throat close up. Why hadn’t I stopped at that shop? Why’d I push it? The idea of never seeing her again clawed at my chest, sharp and cold.
Then I saw it—headlights coming the other way. A pickup truck rounded the curve, right in my path. The driver’s face lit up in my lights, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. My stomach dropped. I was going too fast, the trailer fishtailing, the truck tilting as I fought to hold the turn. I yanked the wheel, muscles burning, trying to keep the rig on the road. The guardrail was inches away, the drop beyond it waiting to swallow me. I pictured the truck plunging over, the beams crushing the cab, my body trapped in twisted metal.
“Tom!” I yelled into the mic. “There’s a pickup! I’m gonna hit him or go over!” My voice broke, raw with panic.
“Stay with it!” Tom shouted back. “Lean into the turn, keep it steady!”
Time slowed, each second stretching like a lifetime. The pickup’s horn blared, a desperate wail cutting through the night. I saw the driver swerve, his tires squealing as he veered toward the forest side. My truck skidded, the trailer swinging wide, metal groaning louder. I heard a scrape—my trailer clipped the pickup’s tailgate, a sickening screech of metal on metal. But no crash, no explosion of glass. I held the wheel, my arms shaking, and somehow, the tires gripped.
The truck lurched, straightening just enough to clear the curve. The guardrail flashed by, so close I could’ve reached out and touched it. The pickup disappeared behind me, its headlights fading in my mirrors. I was through the curve, on a straighter stretch, but still rolling too fast. My heart pounded so hard it hurt, my breath coming in short gasps. I downshifted again, the engine roaring, and finally felt the truck slow. I spotted the runaway ramp Tom mentioned, a gravel slope off the shoulder. I steered toward it, the truck jolting as it hit the gravel, slowing until it stopped.
I sat there, hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white. My whole body trembled, my shirt soaked with sweat. The engine ticked, cooling in the quiet. I could still see that driver’s face, the terror in his eyes. Three inches closer, and I’d have crushed him. Or I’d be at the bottom of that drop, the river washing over what was left.
The CB crackled. “You there?” Tom’s voice was urgent. “I saw you make that curve, man. Thought you were done.”
I fumbled for the mic, my hands unsteady. “I’m… I’m okay,” I croaked. “Stopped at the ramp. Missed that pickup by nothing.”
“Man, you’re lucky,” Tom said, relief in his voice. “Stay put. I’m calling it in.”
I leaned back, trying to breathe, but the fear wouldn’t let go. Every time I blinked, I saw the guardrail, the drop, those headlights. My daughter’s face kept flashing in my mind, her voice asking when I’d be home. I’d almost lost everything for a deadline.
A state trooper pulled up twenty minutes later, his cruiser’s lights painting the trees red and blue. He got out, flashlight in hand, and walked to my window. “You the one with the brake trouble?” he asked, his face serious.
I nodded, still shaky. “Brakes failed coming into that curve. Almost hit a pickup. Clipped it, maybe.”
He frowned, shining his light on the trailer. “You’re lucky to be here. That drop’s taken trucks before. Bodies don’t always make it out. You check your lines?”
I told him about the spongy brakes, how I thought I’d fixed them. He shook his head. “Gotta get that towed. Can’t drive like that.”
While we waited for the tow truck, I walked around my rig, legs wobbly. The trailer had a fresh scrape along one side, paint from the pickup smeared across it. The guardrail back at the curve had a new dent, my trailer’s mark. I felt sick, thinking how close it’d been. If the pickup hadn’t swerved, if I’d turned a second later, I’d be gone—or he would.
The tow guy showed up an hour later, a grizzled man named Hank. He crawled under the truck, muttering as he checked the lines. “Split brake line,” he said, climbing out, grease on his hands. “Leaked slow, so you didn’t notice till it was gone. You’re lucky, man. Another minute, you’d be in that river.”
I didn’t say much, just nodded. He hooked up the truck, and I rode with him to a shop, sipping stale coffee from my thermos. The whole way, I kept replaying it—the curve, the headlights, the scrape. I could still feel the wheel shaking in my hands, hear the beams creaking. I thought about the pickup driver, wondered if he was okay, if he was shaking like I was.
At the shop, I called my wife. “I’m okay,” I told her, but my voice cracked. I couldn’t tell her how close it was, not yet. I just promised I’d be home soon.
That night changed me. I never ignored a warning sign again, no matter how small. Every pre-trip inspection became a ritual—brakes, lines, tires, everything checked twice. I started calling Lily every night, no matter where I was, just to hear her voice. Years later, driving Route 17 still makes my hands sweat, my heart race. I can’t pass that curve without seeing those headlights, feeling the truck skid, hearing that scrape. The road doesn’t forgive mistakes, and it doesn’t warn you twice. I learned that the hard way.
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