He heard the door of the pickup slam, and footsteps as Donna raced toward him, “Trent!” she shouted. Trent, where are you?”

“Down here,” he hollered back at her. “Get a rope!”

Donna appeared at the edge of the pavement, her blonde hair lit up by the streetlight behind her like a halo around her head. “Oh, thank God you’re still here,” she said, “When that van jumped, it looked like you just disappeared with it. Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” he said, not actually sure yet. His right leg hurt something fierce, but not as bad as it would hurt if the damned bank fell in the hole on top of him. “Don’t get too close to the edge. It could cave in any second.” The smooth surface was already slumping, and dirt sifted down from a loose layer a couple feet under the blacktop.

“Jesus. Don’t go any—I mean—just wait right there. I’ll bring the truck up close and tie the rope to it.”

“Not too close!”

“I know.” She ran off, and he dodged the rocks and dirt that kept trickling down into the pit with him while he waited. The puddle of water was growing fast; his cowboy boots were already ankle-deep, and he could feel it seeping in through the stitching around the sole.

He heard the whine of the wheel motors and the slam of the driver’s door, a few seconds of silence after that, then the camper door slammed and he knew she’d gone for the rope in their survival supplies rather than the one he kept behind the seat for towing, but before she could toss it down to him the air filled with the sound of squealing tires and slamming doors. Red and blue light flashed into the open building, and someone shouted “Step away from the pickup and put your hands in the air!”

“Hey, you idiots,” Trent yelled up at them, “She’s trying to save my sorry ass! Win don’t you give her a hand instead of giving her shit.”

A face poked over the edge of the hole. “Hey, we got us another one down here,” said the cop.