Weaving through the hills and ranchlands between Briggs and Lometa, the big rig’s wheels beat a steady drumbeat against the seams of the concrete two-lane highway. Thick-a-thunk, thick-a-thunk, thick-a- thunk. A few miles north of Briggs, two deer shot across the highway, their brown coats almost a blur in the headlights. Too close. Way too close. She took a deep breath and glanced skyward. “Thank you, God.” In Clovis, she would gas up and load three dozen wooden pallets in the empty half of the trailer for delivery in Santa Rosa. Kelsey gripped the top of the steering wheel with her gloved hands while her elbows rested on the sides. The gloves’ worn black calfskin concealed months and miles of oil and grease stains.

In the passenger seat, beside Kelsey, stood her driving partner Max, a tan- and white-haired mutt with terrier and schnauzer lineage plus what- ever ancestors may have jumped over the back fence along the way. She found the dog on Christmas Eve 2012, curled up and shivering behind a trash can at a central Oklahoma truck stop during an emergency run for a hospital supply company. She named him Maximus. Never knew why. The name just seemed to fit. She later shortened it to Max. He wasn’t a big dog, but he was feisty and fiercely protective.

From Chapter One