“He was doing ninety, riding the tidal surges of the road like a ship at sea, the humps of tarmac merging with rolling waves of quicksilver fata morgana. Every so often he rose to a crest on the highway and glimpsed another truck, an RV or a semi coming towards him before he slipped into a trough. At the next crest, the stranger was a little larger, then still larger until it roared past. Storch must have been running out of sync with the truck that was coming from the direction of Furnace Creek..., because he didn't see it until he was charging down to meet it at the bottom of a trough and it filled his windshield, riding the center line at over one twenty. It was a black Ford F-350 just like his, and for a split second, he thought he was driving into a mirage, a trick of the heat haze making a mirror of an updraft under the punishing midday Death Valley sun. Then its horn sounded, and Storch heeled the truck over into a controlled skid that went awry when he saw what looked like himself driving the other Ford.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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