The heavy front tires of Coach #404 hummed against wet concrete.
Marcus “Mac” Cole kept both hands welded to the controls. His right palm gripped the worn black plastic of the steering wheel. His left wrist, locked into the steel cuff of his Globe five-hole punch, rested flat against the Bendix air-brake paddle.
The twin high-beams cut through yellow fog.
Fifty yards ahead, the elevated ramp split into three identical lanes. Concrete barriers rose between them like gray knife blades. Above each lane, a riveted steel gantry hung from the overhead truss.
Three green municipal signs glared down in the headlights.
Mac squinted through the salt-crusted windshield. The Detroit Diesel vibrated through the steel pedals into his work boots.
“Look at the lettering,” Mac said. “Julian, tell me what you see.”
Julian Vance stepped forward from the aisle. He braced his hip against the stanchion pole behind the driver’s cage. He kept his boots planted squarely on the rubber mat, three inches behind the yellow standee line.
