He’s proud of the diorama concealed in the back of his tractor trailer. Is it art? Maybe. It’s got to be something more than the stolen contents of a brother’s apartment.
He’s stuck in traffic now, stopped dead between Boston and Springfield in an eastbound lane of the Mass Pike. People are getting out of their cars and trucks, peering over vehicles lined up as far as the eye can see. And across the median the westbound lanes are empty enough for touch football or a picnic: Whatever happened ahead is bad enough to have stopped the flow of traffic in both directions.
Next to him on the passenger seat sits Puck, the little poodle mix he took from the apartment along with the furniture. The dog’s giving him the eye, and he slaps his knee, though he knows Puck’s too old and timid to make the leap over the gear shift box. He picks up the dog, leashes it, tucks it under his arm, and swings out of his truck’s door onto pavement rubbed shiny by millions of tires—but his boots are probably the first to touch this exact spot. The smells of asphalt and exhaust rise through… Read more »