The Trucks Count Back — Beside the westbound lanes, Gilda decided she would count every license plate on the next car carrier before it passed the third guardrail post. Read the full story →
Beside the westbound lanes, Gilda decided she would count every license plate on the next car carrier before it passed the third guardrail post. Her tires hummed on the warm pavement: one, two, three—oops, that hatchback’s plate hid behind a strap. The air smelled like sun-baked rubber and clover from the ditch, and the big truck’s metal decks went clink-clink over each seam.
Gilda tried again, this time counting roof colors. White van, blue coupe, silver wagon, tiny green car with a bug on its mirror. “Hold still, everybody,” she whispered, though the whole tower of cars bobbed like a parade float with hiccups.
Then, from the top row, a yellow compact flashed its headlights: once, twice, three times. The other cars answered with winks from chrome and glass. They had been counting Gilda’s freckles of mud all along. By the next guardrail post, Gilda was laughing so hard she nearly counted a cloud twice; next time you see that high stacked truck, check whether one car is winking back.