Lights Off at 212

"Bev can ride in back with the steers. They're crying for water, Ray. I can hear them through the wall. I can't stand it."

Bev leaned over to the mic. "Gus, keep your doors shut. Hot is better than dust in their lungs."

"You a cow hauler now, Bev?"

"My daddy ran cattle out of Willcox. Shut your doors and turn your lights off."

"Doors, yes ma'am. Lights, no ma'am."

"Hey," Gus said. "Ain't this your mile? Where you got hit in '99?"

"Two up," Ray said. "214."

He told it anyway. He told it at every truck stop from here to El Paso.

"July of '99," he told Gus. "Team drivers then, Bev and me, swapping so the truck never stops. I'm asleep in the sleeper, the bunk back of the seats. Bev's got the wheel. Dust comes down at 214, and she pulls off by the book. Lights off. Foot off. And some dumb kid comes out of it doing 70 and goes right under the trailer. Driving blind."

"60," Bev said.

"What?"

"He was doing 60. And his name was Joel."

The radio hissed. Then Gus said, "You remember his name, Bev?"

"I remember all of it."

"Sorry, Bev," Gus said. "Ray always tells it like he was the one driving."

"My truck," Ray said. "My story."

Ray hung the mic up. "I never even saw him, you know. They had him covered by the time I got down out of the bunk."

"I saw him."

"You never said."

"You never asked what I saw. You asked if I was hurt."

"Funny, what I remember," Ray said. "Not the hit. A ticking. Like a clock in the cab. That's what woke me up."

"It was the radio," Bev said.

"Friday," Ray said. "A man in Tucson gives us money for this truck, and I get a porch."

"I haven't signed."

"Papers have been in that glovebox three weeks."

"I'll sign when I sign."

"A porch, Bev. Two chairs. A dog that's scared of me."

"You'll be dead of boredom by Christmas."

"Then I'll die sitting down. You're 61. Your back is 80."

"There's one more July in me."

"Every July you bid on every load down this road. 27 summers. I used to think you liked the cactus."

"I like the cactus."

"He's still there. Still not moving. And Bev, I don't see a driver's head behind those lights. I don't hear an engine. I got good ears."

"Then use them and be quiet."

"I am using them. Even an old car ticks when it's hot. That one doesn't make a sound."

"Don't," Bev said.

"Watch. If he's a person, he'll flash back or honk."

"Ray, don't..."

He tapped the brake. Red flared on the dust, far back.

The round lights did not move.

"Foot off!" Bev snapped. "Off, Ray!"

"He didn't even blink. See? Just a guy waiting it out. Probably asleep with his lights on, like Gus."

Her phone lit up. Kim, their daughter in Tucson: MOM ARE YOU IN THAT DUST. CALL ME.

In the mirror, the round lights slid forward.

"Bev," Ray whispered. "No engine. No tyres. They just came. Half a trailer. They're level with the middle of the box now. On your side."

She turned the phone face down.

"It moved when your phone lit," he said.

"Don't touch anything that glows."

"It didn't move for my brakes."

"I know."

"That's your rule, Bev. The man behind follows your lights. So why's he following yours and not mine?"

"Ask him."

He held up his own phone, bright. "Nothing. Not me, then. Story of my life. Never the pretty one."

She did not laugh. "Kim's going to call next," she said. "When she does, don't touch it."

"Gus," Ray said into the mic. "You still got eyes on us?"

"Dust's thinning back here. I see your whole trailer now."

"There's a car beside us. Bev's side. Round lights."

A long hiss. "Ray, there's nothing on that shoulder but you. I've had my lights on you the whole time."

"His lights have been on the whole time, Bev. And it never went near him."

"Gus didn't do anything," Bev said quietly.

"What does that mean?" He put his hand on his door handle. "I'm going to look."

"You open that door, the cab light comes on." She caught his sleeve. "Sit down, Ray."

"It's a dome light, Bev."

"It's a light."

He sat.

"Sign at 215 just went to 45," Gus said. "It's lifting, people. My steers say thank you."

"Hear that?" Ray let his shoulders drop. "It's going tan. 10 minutes and we roll. Sign those papers while we sit, Bev. Make me a porch."

She looked at him. Then she opened the glovebox.

The little bulb came on, small and yellow.

A face was at her window.

A young man, up on her step. Dust in his eyebrows. A white T-shirt gone the colour of the road. He knocked on her glass with one knuckle, twice, polite, like somebody lost asking the way.

Bev shut the glovebox. The face stayed.

"Lock your door," Ray said.

"It's locked."

He grabbed the mic. "Gus. There's a man at Bev's window. Young guy. He's knocking like a kid selling candy."

"Ray," Gus said slowly, "I'm looking right at your truck."

"Son," Ray called through the glass, loud, in his boss voice. "Step back from the truck. Step back now."

Tap. Tap.

"He doesn't even turn his head, Gus. I'm yelling at him."

"Ray, there's nobody there. Talk to me. What's he doing?"

"Who is he?" Ray whispered.

"You know who he is."

"Joel."

"I had the flashers on," Bev said.

"What?"

"That day. I was 34, and I was scared somebody would hit us. So I put the flashers on, the hazard lights. All four corners, ticking. That was your clock, Ray. Not the radio."

"You told the trooper they were off."

"He asked me, ma'am, were your lights on? And I saw his face. He already knew which answer was the good one. So I gave him that one, and he wrote it down."

"He followed them in."

"He followed me. He saw a light in the dust and thought it was the road."

Her phone buzzed. A thin rim of light leaked round the case.

"That's Kim," Ray said.

"Let it ring."

Joel put his palm flat on the glass.

Bev shoved it down beside the seat, into the dark.

Ray waved a hand across her, at the glass. "He's not looking at me. Not once. Bev, I'm right here, and his eyes don't even move."

"You were asleep," she said.

"27 years. I called him a dumb kid at every counter from here to El Paso. You let me."

"I let you. It was easier to hear it your way."

"His mother," Ray said. "Did she know?"

"She sent us a card that Christmas. She said she was glad nobody in the truck got hurt."

"And every July. This road."

"I kept the dark every storm, Ray. And every storm I hoped he'd find me anyway."

He took her left hand in both of his. It was cold, in 109 degrees.

"You don't get to go with him," he said.

"Ray."

"You can hate me for it. You can hate me on the porch."

"I don't hate you, Ray. I just never got to be sorry out loud."

Tap. Tap.

"I know," Bev said to the glass. "I know, honey. I know it was me."

He pulled her hand to his chest and turned her face from the glass. Behind her the knuckle squeaked. Then a soft electric whine came from her door, low under the roar of the air. The fan, he thought. He held on.

"4:41," Ray said. His voice cracked on it. "Sign's at 55. It's going white, Bev. Face is gone. Shoulder's empty. Nothing but gravel back to Gus."

"Lifting all the way," Gus said. "My steers are drinking out of my hat. I got to have these boys in Willcox by six or they cook. Ray? Bev? You two all right up there? Say something."

Ray was looking past her.

Her window was down two inches. Fine dust lay in a line along her sleeve. Her right hand was still on the switch.

"Two more minutes of dust," Bev said, "and he'd have had his fingers in."