The engine had picked up a mewling sound in Minot. Or maybe it had always sounded that way and it was only the vast, featureless flat that made him hear it.
The Trans Canada route was killing him. Maybe after Saskatoon he’d look into a Pacific job. He hadn’t worked those lush and winding roads since he was a young man. Which made him think of Sheila. And the baby, who wouldn’t be a baby anymore. Kid’d be what, fifteen? Sixteen? With a biting guilt, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d tucked a twenty into a truck stop birthday card for the kid. He’d blown it—along with every single chance at love and fatherhood.
Then, that sound again. This time, he took the exit, rolled to a stop, and swung the hood back.
The source of the sound came at him: angry, furry, needing, desperate: