Oliver drove as far as he could, stopped within half a mile of turning onto the Causeway. A blockade went up as he watched, disobeying the police officer who stood in the downpour, directing with his hands for cars to turn around. Another set of police cars began the process of shutting down the traffic trying to flow toward the Causeway, preventing anyone from even approaching that lane of the bridge.

His breath had caught long before he turned off the ignition. Beyond the blockade he could make out the remains of a shitty old white pickup truck. It had been pancaked into the side of the Causeway, one tire teetering precariously over the edge, a gentle nudge from dropping into the lake.

Oliver parked wherever, leaving the door to his car open as he drifted out of it, wiping the rain from his eyes only as a formality, only because he needed to see. Flares cracked to life on the road, neon red fires kindling on the pavement, doing nothing to cut through the raincloud darkness. The officer directing traffic didn’t see him as he approached the yellow tape. Oliver ducked under, sneakers colliding with debris and crystalline chunks of glass that sparkled, reflecting the red flare light.

His mind tricked him into thinking it was a different white pickup truck. Of course it was. Nothing was for sure until it was for sure. Nothing could convince him it was his dad’s truck until there was absolute proof. This was a coincidence until it was a tragedy. But he still couldn’t breathe. His pulse knew what his mind refused to accept.

“Whoa, hey kid, you have to get back in your vehicle and turn around.” An officer intercepted him, a tall, thin woman with cowlike, sympathetic eyes and yellow hair. She ducked and took a closer look at him. “Hey? Sir? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?”

“My dad,” Oliver murmured, staring past her. “That’s . . . that’s my dad’s truck.”

“What? Are you sure about that?” She glanced around, at the truck and then at the ambulance and fire truck parked horizontally across the lane. “I need to see some ID, kid.”

Oliver pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed her the whole thing. He handed her his keys. He didn’t trust his hands to hold anything anyway. Her grip on him loosened and Oliver continued forward, as if he had no control over his own momentum, as if the twisted-up truck had caught him in a tractor beam. Something caught on his shoe and stuck, gluey. Oliver wiggled his leg but it wouldn’t come off. He stopped, watching as three drenched firemen cut away and wrenched off the truck’s folded-up door.

What was it they called that thing? The Jaws of Life?

A pale, limp hand slid into view, curled up on what was left of the passenger’s side seat. The flares crackled. The sirens all around him flickered and flickered, dyeing that single hand blue and then red. The officer behind him barked into her radio, asking for help, more help, more assistance, for Christ’s sake the guy’s kid had shown up, could she get some damn help already?

Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. That same officer.

“It’s my dad,” Oliver said, tugging against her. “It’s my dad!” He panicked, but she was strong, holding him, and soon two more officers jogged over to help her, restraining him as the EMTs hurried in after the firemen, a stretcher folded out and waiting behind them.

He didn’t know what he was screaming anymore, just that he was screaming. He didn’t know what he was seeing, only that his father was being taken away in pieces.

They carried him away. Forced him away. Wet through and freezing, Oliver couldn’t feel any of it. His throat felt raw, and when they sat him down in the back of an open ambulance, a dry, brown blanket draped over his shoulders, he couldn’t even grasp the edges of the fabric with his trembling fingers.

“How did you know to come here?” an officer was asking, gently. They were all perfectly nice to him now that he had stopped shrieking.

Oliver didn’t answer. What did it matter? He couldn’t save his dad, and the reasons why seemed pointless to consider. He shifted, his sneaker scraping the pavement. That damn gluey bullshit was still stuck to his foot. Suddenly it was the only thing worthy of his attention. How dare it. How dare it annoy him right then? How dare anyone touch him or look at him or ask him anything at all?

He bent down and blindly groped at the bottom of his shoe, tearing away the plasticky strip with a ferocious tear of his fist. He almost tossed it away, but the dark green color snagged on a memory. Unrolling the wad of torn plastic, Oliver stared down at the sticker. A bumper sticker.

He couldn’t breathe again, and the cold and the rain and the officer touching his shoulder felt a million miles away.

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the one item he hadn’t handed over to the police for safekeeping. The officer sighed and wandered away, giving up on Oliver and his dazed silence. When she was gone, Oliver retrieved his phone, realizing he should call Sabrina, call Micah, call anyone at all who could make sense of this for him.

He had deleted her number, but he recognized the odd area code. Briony.

Come back to work for us, Oliver. Your debt is not repaid.