The tow truck had its yellow lights spinning before my grandson even got his window all the way down.
I know that because his girlfriend, Hailey, sent me the video from the passenger seat. Forty-one seconds of it.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while I was wiping down the stove. I watched it standing up, still holding the dishrag.
You could see red and blue lights flashing across the dashboard. You could see Tyler’s hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. The way I taught him in the church parking lot when he was fifteen.
And you could hear the voice at the window. Calm and flat as a county road.
“License. Registration. Proof of insurance.”
It was my son-in-law.
Deputy Craig Hanson. Married to my daughter Lisa for four years now. Standing at my grandson’s window on Main Street at seven o’clock on a Saturday night. In front of the Dairy Queen. In front of half the high school.
Tyler handed it all over. His voice on that video was steady. But I’ve known that boy since the day he was born. I heard the catch in it.
“Craig. It’s me.”
“I know who it is,” Craig said. “Your right taillight is cracked. It’s showing white to the rear. That’s an equipment violation.”
“I know. I ordered the part. The salvage yard in St. Cloud said it’d be here Tuesday.”
“It’s Saturday.”
