The bay door was fourteen feet wide.The engine was eight feet, four inches wide.That left two feet, ten inches of clearance on each side.Which sounded easy.
But in practical reality, it was impossible to hit.The approach required a reverse arc from the gravel apron into the bay at a specific angle that compensated for the engine’s turning radius, the slight grade of the concrete pad, and the fact that the left bay door track was warped by approximately three-quarters of an inch.
He understood the geometry perfectly.He had, in fact, diagrammed it in his notebook, calculated the optimal approach angle, and identified the precise point at which to begin the reverse arc.
None of his calculations or diagrams helped.
On his first attempt, he clipped the right door frame and scraped a stripe of red paint onto the metal track.It had taken a whole day and Boone’s expert help at repainting door panels to repair the damage to the truck and track.
On his second attempt, he overcorrected and took out both orange traffic cones Sully had set up as guides.Thankfully, Sully had shouted urgently at him to stop, and he’d missed backing the expensive stainless steel hose valve on the back of the truck into the brick wall of the fire station.
On his third attempt, he somehow managed to end up at a forty-five-degree angle to the bay opening, which was geometrically impressive and operationally useless.Sully, who had been watching from a folding chair and sipping on a beer, said merely, “Well.That’s creative.”
Gray did not find this encouraging.
But he came back the next day.And the day after that.He set up the cones fresh each morning and systematically destroyed them each afternoon.He kept a log in his notebook: date, attempt number, angle of approach, point of failure, cones lost.
The data was not encouraging either.By Thursday of the first week, he’d flattened fourteen cones and developed a persistent twitch in his left eye that appeared whenever he shifted into reverse.
The problem, he eventually concluded, was not the math.The problem was that thirty-one feet of steel did not behave the way the math said it should.There was slop in the steering column.The rear axle tracked differently on gravel than on concrete.The mirrors vibrated at low speeds, turning his reference points into impressionist paintings.
He understood fire at the molecular level—the oxidation chain, the heat transfer coefficients, the fluid dynamics of smoke.He could calculate flame spread rates in his head.But he could not get a truck through a hole that was five feet wider than said truck.
By the second week, word had gotten out.
He blamed the pinochle posse.Ruth Sanger’s gossip network operated at a speed that violated several known laws of physics, and the spectacle of the youngest Lawton brother waging war against traffic cones was exactly the sort of information her network was built to disseminate.
People started showing up at the station to watch.
As it turned out, having an audience did nothing to improve Gray’s performance.In fact, his ability to back up deteriorated in direct proportion to how many people were observing his efforts.
By Wednesday of the second week, there were four pickup trucks parked along the street and Walter Meeks sat on the tailgate of his with a bag of peanuts, as if it was a movie matinee.
“You’re cutting too early,” Walter called out after attempt number twenty-three ended with two cones down and a noise from the right rear tire that Gray preferred not to identify.
“Thank you, Walter,” Gray said with all the patience he could muster, which wasn’t much.
“You need to let the tail swing wider before you commit.”
“I appreciate the input.”
“My nephew backed a thirty-six-foot horse trailer through a barn door with six inches to spare on each side.First try.Course, he’d been driving since he was twelve.”
Gray did not deign to respond.He reset the cones.
Friday afternoon the school bus stopped in front of the fire station, and Gray watched in surprise as Noah bounded off the bus and Cassidy hopped down more slowly.Noah marched up to Gray with his notebook in hand, already open, and announced, “I’m gonna be your co-pilot today.”
“I don’t need a co-pilot.”
“Yes, you do.You’ve knocked over twenty-six cones.”
“How on earth do you know that?”Gray blurted.
“Sully and Tucker are taking turns keeping count.Jenna and Molly compare tallies every day, and they call my mom every night to tell her how many cones you hit that day.”
“You’re kidding.”
Noah grinned.“Cassidy’s keeping the official record, but I’ve been keeping my own.”He held up his notebook.The page was covered in tally marks organized by date.It was, Gray had to admit, methodologically sound.
