Tuesday morning, 6:30 a.m.
I was standing on my porch with a fresh cup of coffee when Derek’s first cement mixer of the day crested the hill.
The air brakes hissed like an angry snake.
The truck was fully loaded—easily 40 tons of wet concrete inside the spinning drum.
It hit the approach to my grandfather’s bridge going far too fast.
Rumble. Groan. CRACK.
The sound echoed across the water like a gunshot.
See more on the next page
