I walk slowly past the open doors. A sleek black truck is in the first bay. A dented red dump truck is in the second. The third bay contains a green rig with its hood yawning open. I have only to walk in to be able to read the lettering on the door. I can see the Washington State tag on the front. I walk in, ignoring the sign forbidding anyone but personnel to enter. Arthur B. Schmidt Trucking. I quickly jump up on the running board and haul the door open, squeezing my eyes shut in a frantic prayer.

The cab is empty. No Mack. I even call his name, but I know even before opening the door that he’s not in there. If he was anywhere around, I’d hear his joyful bark. He’d know instantly that I was here. That I’d finally found him.

I am suddenly very thirsty, parched. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Confrontation does this to me. I am going to kill Artie Schmidt.

“Can I help you?” The voice is clearly annoyed at finding an interloper in his secure manly space. I turn to face a barrel-chested guy in a smoke-gray uniform with the name Al stitched over the A-1 emblem. There is a line of grease on his face that makes me think of war paint.

“I’m looking for the owner of this truck.” I shut the door and place a hand on the fender, as if I think this guy won’t understand which truck I’m talking about.

“He’s in the lounge. Over there.” The mechanic jabs a finger toward a glass wall. I can see the backs of heads as the room’s three occupants sit in a line of chairs facing a big-screen TV that’s tuned to ESPN. There’s a baseball game on. I think it’s clever that A-1 faces its customers away from watching what’s happening with their trucks, mesmerizing them with the lure of big heads on bigger screens. Each one of the lounge sitters wears a cap. They sit apart, like strangers in an airport, one or two chairs between them. From behind, I can’t tell which one is Artie.

“Thank you.” I start toward the glass wall.

“You get in through the office.” Al nods at a metal door at the far end of the garage.

I feel his eyes on me as I walk to the door. I throw a little sashay into my walk. I might need this guy if Artie gets nasty.