It was bright golden yellow, the exact color mine had been before it went white at the temples.

“I need to stop at the terminal before we head home,” I said.

“Dale has the evening dispatch handled,” Tiffany said, looking at her phone.

“He knows how to route the night drivers without us.”

I took the exit for the mansion without bothering with the blinker.

The driveway wound through two acres of mowed lawn before it ended at the stone garage.

The house was three stories of brick and glass, built five years earlier when the trucking fleet doubled its routes across the state line.