Rick got arrested three weeks after that birthday party.
He walked into a convenience store in Canyon, grabbed a carton of cigarettes and two hundred dollars from an open register while the clerk was in the back, and drove off in a car registered to Tara.
The store had four cameras. He didn’t even wear a hat.
Joanne heard it come in over the radio at the sheriff’s office and called me before she was off shift.
“Turns out,” she said, “that forty dollars wasn’t his first time.”
He’s doing eight months in the county jail. Tara moved back to Lubbock. I don’t know where she lives now. I don’t want to know.
That spring, I gave up long-haul.
I walked into my dispatcher’s office in Amarillo on a Monday morning and set my logbook on his desk.
“I’m done with the Atlanta run, Lou,” I said. “I need something local. Home every night.”
Lou looked at me for a long time over his coffee. He’d heard. Everybody had heard. Joanne doesn’t keep secrets, and the Panhandle is a small place.
“I’ve got a regional route,” he said. “Grain and feed. Amarillo, Dumas, Dalhart, back by six every night. Pays about thirty grand less than you’re making now, Wade.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“You don’t want to think it over?”
“I’ve been thinking it over for two years,” I said. “I just didn’t know it.”
The pay is less. A lot less. We gave up cable. I sold my bass boat. Kaylee started bringing her lunch to school instead of buying it.
I don’t care.
I’m home every night by six. I cook supper. Badly, most nights. Kaylee says my chili tastes like a tire fire. She eats two bowls anyway.
She’s put back on all the weight she lost. Her cheeks are round again. She made varsity softball as a junior. She plays second base, and she’s got her mother’s arm.
I haven’t missed a single game.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.