Big Truck in the Garden
by Brian Beatty
Cale was sitting on the front porch of his crumbling farm house, plunking away on a banjo, when up pulled a pair of sheriff’s cars without their lights or sirens going.
“Lucky me!” Cale hooted. “This must be a social visit. Sorry I’m out of iced tea, boys.”
“Just looking into a missing persons lead,” said the taller, dumber-looking of the deputies.
“I’m right here,” Cale replied. “Been out here all afternoon. You can ask my neighbors.”