Route 9 North.
Route 9 North was the road to the lake.
The Henderson job was ten minutes from our house, in the opposite direction. He’d been driving it every day for three weeks.
And this morning, he’d turned the wrong way and kept going.
“Mark,” I said. “Look at the clock in your truck. What time does it say?”
“It says eight… eight-fifty.”
He’d left the house at six-forty.
He’d been driving for two hours. North. Toward Loon Lake.
Toward the place he’d been dreaming about all weekend. Toward the dock where he told me he’d marry me.
Some part of him, the part that wasn’t working right anymore, had just pointed the truck at the place he loved most and gone.
“Stay right there,” I said. “Do you hear me? Don’t drive anywhere. Lock the doors and stay right there. I’m coming to get you.”
