I feel the panic rise in my throat in the same way a nightmare about being late or not finding a door or running away from something bad will choke you until you wake up and realize it’s only a dream. Except that this isn’t only a dream. Every inch I crawl along the MassPike is one inch closer to Artie. But it’s only an inch and time is going by. I’m already at least a half hour later than I hoped to be. I had hoped to be standing in front of Artie this very minute. How long before his truck is fixed and he’s back on the road? How late is A-1 Truck Service open? It’s already past four. I should be there. I could be mere miles away from getting Mack back and still miss him because of this mess.

This is torture. I am running in molasses; every step of the way is barricaded or delayed, thwarted. I feel like God is laughing at me. Or maybe mad at me. Is this some kind of divine retribution for loving a dog more than almost any human? For running out on Adele and Paul; for leaving an hour after my father has died?

I’m going slowly enough that I consider hitting that call button. The number for A-1 is still on the screen. One push and I can reach them and ask if Artie is still there, beg them not to tell him I’m coming. Appeal to the stranger on the other end of the line, saying that they need to keep Artie where he is. Strangers have been helping me all along—Mitch, Tyler the car-rental kid, Troy. I just need one more savior. Then, for no apparent reason, the traffic picks up and I’m back up to seventy-five.

*   *   *

The one blessing is that the A-1 Truck Service center is easy to find. Detached rigs fill the parking lot, and the noise coming from the three monumental bays is deafening with the roar of diesel engines being gunned. I squeeze Adele’s car between two trucks like a slice of ham between bulky rolls. I leave everything in the car except the keys, which I pocket. I want my hands free. I take a quick look around the parking lot of waiting behemoths and don’t spot Artie’s truck. I don’t know whether this is good or bad, but it leaves me with one last hope that one of the rigs currently occupying the garage has to be his.