Clay Carpenter

    The radio came alive immediately. You saying we’re going to get a foot and
a half of partly cloudy? It time for coffee yet? The voice was replaced with the heavy beat of a rock tune. 
    Charlie reached forward to slam his fist on the radio mike button. “Can
that radio, Custer.” 
    It’s not me, dammit! came the reply. 
    The music continued for another couple seconds and then stopped.
Charlie Hayward sat back again and shook his head. 
    On the outlying country roads conditions were combining to present
a situation wholly unappreciated by Public Works Department crews.
With almost non-existent windrows from previous storms, and little or no
traffic, plowing that first path through winter’s wilderness could be difficult
indeed. 
    Among those least concerned at the prospect was Simpson Dunbar. At
thirty miles per hour the sound of the engine and that of the plows was
almost deafening in the truck’s cab. The view out through the windshield
displayed a landscape of windswept whiteness in this area where open
fields bordered the highway. Only the faint tracks of a couple vehicles that
had passed some time ago indicated where the road was supposed to be,
or indeed that there was a road at all. The only solid objects to be actually
seen was the occasional telephone pole as it flashed by close on the wing
side of the truck. 
    The hands of Dustin Eaves were white as death as they clutched two of
the plow levers ahead of him next to the dash. Dustin stared blankly ahead
into the approaching gloom. 
    On the other hand, Simpson seemed without a care. A cigarette dangled
from his lips, his left arm rested on the open window frame. His countenance suggested a man on the open sea not expecting anything important to happen in the immediate future. 
    “H . . . h . . . how d . . . do you know where the road is?” Eaves managed
to get heard above the din. 
    Simpson glanced over, seemingly surprised to hear so many words all at
once from his rookie wingman. “I can feel it,” Simpson replied in a voice of
appropriate volume. “Don’t worry, I know where it is . . . You know, you don’t
have to hang onto them levers all the time. They’re not going anywhere.” 
    Eaves slowly released his grip of the levers and brought his hands
cautiously into his lap. Just then a series of loud thuds came from the right
side of the truck, and with a loud wham, the wing suddenly rose into the

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