Dale was standing next to the fuel island holding a red shop rag against his leg while a gravel trailer idled by the scales.

“Tell Miller to take the I-40 bypass around Jackson,” I said, walking up to the cab of the lead truck.

The driver, a kid named Vance who’d been with us six months, looked out his window with his hand on the gearshift.

“Miss Tiffany canceled that run two hours ago, Mr.

Sullivan,” Vance said.

“That gravel’s loaded for the bridge contract,” I said.

“It goes to Jackson today.”