“Whatever. I hope you’re right.” A text from an insurance company comes through with a towing job. I accept it and give my estimated time of arrival then put the truck in gear. “I’ll drop you back at the shop. Collision near the I-95 exit.”
Lincoln smiles. “Well, there you go. More business.”
“Until this new place gets in the towing queue.”
“Let’s not worry until there’s something to worry about, okay, Carter?”
I nod. He’s right. I’m not even a big worrier. I learned early on—right after Christian’s mom left us—that worrying about hiscondition, how I was going to raise him, and how I’d support a kid, was energy better spent on other things. Things like becoming the best dad and mechanic I could be.
Dropping Lincoln off, I’m pleased to see a few cars in the lot. Despite the weather, people are still coming in for service, repairs, or just to buy parts from our store.Our store.The new place doesn’t have a store. That should give us an advantage—our versatility. Our shop is a cross between an AutoZone, a Jiffy Lube, and a collision repair place.
Suddenly feeling better, I loop around the back and make my way out onto the street and toward the interstate.
Flashing red and blue lights let me know where I’m going when I get there. Two police cars and an ambulance are blocking the exit that I end up backing up onto, going the wrong way. They’ve stopped all other traffic, so I’ve got a safe approach straight to the crash site.
Seeing an accident, and especially an ambulance, always gets my heart pounding. No matter how many times I’ve done this, there’s always that worry that someone was badly injured, or even killed. Yeah, it’s happened. And yeah, it sucks bad.
One wreck still haunts me to this day. I got to the accident scene before the passenger was fully extricated from the car. It was a young boy—maybe eight or nine years old—and he was already dead. I went home that night and crawled into bed with Christian, holding him tight and wanting to bubble-wrap him until… well, forever.
Not seeing anyone in or around the car, I maneuver the truck as close as I can get to what used to be the front bumper. I hop out and ask the closest cop, “You ready for me yet?” It’s not unusual to have to wait while reports are made and pictures are taken.
“Single vehicle accident. Hit a patch of ice on the exit ramp. Bounced off the guardrail and into that tree.”
I hear a child crying and my heart lurches as I turn my head toward the ambulance. A mother and young girl sit in the back, both wrapped in a blanket. I nod toward them. “They okay?”
“Not a scratch on them. New car. Lots of air bags. And thankfully, a well-installed child safety seat.”
I blow out a relieved breath. “That’s good.”
Like I always do, I head over to the driver and hand her my card. “This is where the car will be. We can check it out today and I can call you or your husband this afternoon.”
The woman—brunette, petite, and with the most incredible green eyes—looks up at me as if she still can’t believe what happened. Not an uncommon thing. Her eyes pool with tears. She’s of course upset about the accident. But I’ve seen a lot of people after accidents. She seems devastated on a deeper level.
“It’s just me.” She looks at her daughter. “I mean, it’s just us.” She glances over and winces at the sight of her wrecked car. “All of our things are in there.”
“You can grab your purse before I take off.”
She shakes her head. “No. I meanallour things. We were… leaving.” Her words trail off as her eyes close, like she has no idea what she’s going to do.
Leaving? The way she says it guts me. Leaving where? And leaving why? For a new job? A new life? Or is it something else? The fear behind her eyes tells me there might be a whole lot more to it.
“Ma’am?” the officer asks. “Since you’ve both been medically cleared, I’d be happy to drop you somewhere.”
She stares up at him with a blank expression. “I wouldn’t even know where to go. I was just pulling off for coffee.”
“Train station?” the man asks. “You have a New York City address.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. Not there.” She looks back at the car. “And all our things. I…” She looks at me now. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Why don’t you ride with me back to the shop? It’s warm. There are a few restaurants within walking distance.” I look at her feet, clad in tennis shoes, hardly fit for trudging through snow, especially with a young girl of only four or five. “Or we can pick up something on the way. If you want coffee, I know just the place. And we have a great waiting area with couches and a television. Some kids toys even. An old PlayStation.”
The little girl wipes a tear. “A PlayStation? Mommy, can we go?”
She looks at her daughter, brows furrowed in apparent confusion. “What do you know about PlayStations, Amelia?”
“Ms. Kinney had one.”
“Is that so?” She studies her daughter like this is brand new information.
