Engineers Swore Nothing Could Move The Sunken Rig Until An Old Man Started His Nineteen Forty Nine Wrecker

The county inspector cleared his throat. “Tomorrow may be too late.” He pointed toward Red Hollow Creek, swollen from three days of spring rain, curling around the bank beneath the rig.

“If that bank gives way, you’ll have diesel and hydraulic fluid in the water. Then it’s not just your problem. It’s the county’s, the state’s, and maybe the federal government’s.”

Bryce took off his sunglasses, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on.

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“Then get it out.”

Nobody answered. Twenty yards away, leaning against the open door of an old blue Chevrolet pickup, stood a man nobody had invited and everybody had noticed. His name was Hank Whitaker.