Page 25 of River Wild

I move forward a step, dropping the food in my arms, and start waving them both in the air to get the driver’s attention.

My new pillows, bedding, and towels are in those bags.

“Hey!” I repeat, yelling, hands waving. “You need to stop!”

But the truck doesn’t stop, and I let out a cry of “No!” as the truck’s big wheels run straight over my shopping bags.

“You mother-fudging son of a C-U-Next-Tuesday!” I yell at the back of the truck speeding away.

I can’t believe this!

I let out a little yelp of upset when I see my now-squished shopping bags.

And, oh Christ, the truck went over the egg box, and the contents have splattered all over the shopping bags and my new bath towels.

I didn’t get any laundry detergent, so I can’t wash them yet, meaning I’ll have to keep using the ratty old towel in the bathroom until I can.

Oh well, I’ve had worse things happen to me.

And the one saving grace is that my bed linens and pillows are covered in plastic wrap, which protected them. They might be a bit crushed, but they’re still usable.

Going back, I gather up the oranges, pancake mix, and bacon. Then, I gingerly pick up the shopping bags.

The egg yolk drips off them.

Gross.

I start walking again.

I can’t believe that driver. There is no way that he or she didn’t at least see me. Fair enough if they didn’t hear me, but I was literally jumping around, waving my hands in the air.

But whomever it was just chose to ignore me and ran straight over my stuff.

I round the corner and walk up the street toward my house.

I’m just about to turn up my path when I spot a truck sitting in my grumpy neighbor’s driveway.

The truck that just ran over my stuff.

I know it’s that truck because it was blue and had Ford in big silver letters on the front grill, which is the exact same truck currently sitting in his driveway.

It was him!

Oh my God! That guy is … he’s a … well, he’s a complete and utter asshat!

And, just as I think it, the asshat himself walks around from the back of the truck, carrying a bag of something—probably groceries—in his arms, which just annoys me even more.

He stops upon seeing me just standing here.

His eyes go down to the bags in my hand. Then, up to my face.

He frowns at me. His dark brows are like angry slashes above his hard eyes. “What the hell is your problem?” he barks at me. “Don’t you know that it’s fucking rude to stare?”

My mouth drops open at the sheer audacity of him.

He ran over my things and then has the brazenness to stand there and say those things to me.

The cheeky … son of a nutcracker!