"Doors locked. Stay in the truck. Don't open the hood. I'm coming. Okay? Keep your phone on. I'm coming right now."
He was in the car in four minutes. Melissa stood in the doorway of the bedroom in her robe as he went past, her face white, and he said, "The truck. He's okay. Picacho," and she said, "Go," and he went.
It was an hour and ten minutes to Picacho Peak at that time of night, if you drove the way Eric drove. He kept Tyler on the phone the whole way, talking about nothing, the Cardinals, Lily's cactus, the radiator, which Eric had installed himself on Wednesday and apparently not clamped right, because he was an idiot, and Tyler laughed a little at that, shakily. Somewhere past Casa Grande, Tyler said, "I'm sorry. About what I said."
"We'll talk about it when I get there."
"I'm really sorry."
"I know, bud. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He saw the hazards from a mile off, two small orange pulses in the enormous dark. He pulled up behind the truck and got out, and Tyler came out of the cab and stood there in the glow of the headlights, and Eric walked up to him and pulled him into his arms and held on. Tyler was taller than he was now, by an inch, maybe two. He had not been, a year ago. He held on to his father and shook.