Page 79 of The Worst Possible Plan

You just watch me.

Dottie mumbled something as she ran around the truck’s other side and climbed into the front passenger seat.

I slid behind the steering wheel before my brain had an opportunity to file an official objection. The seat smelled faintly of hay, coffee, and diesel. I also caught an unmistakable hint of wet dog, even though I was fairly certain no dogs had actually been transported in here. Livestock trucks developed their own ecosystem.

Perfect.

Exactly the scent profile of several future felony charges.

I grabbed the wheel. “Okay…” My heart was beating somewhere around hummingbird speed. “I’ve never stolen a truck before.” Which felt like the sort of sentence that should automatically trigger an intervention. Or at least a strongly worded letter from my future self.

Dottie slammed her door. “I don’t think that’s something you should be saying out loud.” She fastened her seat belt with surprising efficiency for someone voluntarily participating in grand theft livestock.

“I’ve also never kidnapped livestock.” I looked toward the trailer in the side mirror. “But it’s more of a rescue. We’re animal activists. Temporary animal activists.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” said Dottie.

“Me too.” Because so far, I was just making it up as I went.

She nodded. “At least we’re self-aware.” She folded both hands in her lap.

I looked at the gearshift. “You know…” It suddenly seemed alarmingly large. Why did truck gearshifts always look like they belonged in heavy machinery instead of ordinary transportation?

“What?”

“I really hope driving a livestock truck isn’t that much different from driving Sarah’s Jetta.” Sarah’s Jetta had cup holders. This thing looked like it could tow a small moon.

Dottie’s eyes grew wider. “You’ve never driven a truck before?”

I snorted. “Me? Yes. Of course.” Total lie.

“This thing weighs about twelve elephants.” She glanced out the windshield. “Possibly thirteen if you count the trailer.”

“I know.”

“And there’s live cargo.”

“I know.” Which made me feel even more responsible. Great. Now I wasn’t just committing a crime. I was committing a crime with passengers.

“And neither of us has a plan,” added Dottie, red blotches spreading across her face.

“I…” I paused. “Have the beginning of one.” Very beginning. Like page one. Possibly just the title.

She looked at me. “What is it?”

I turned the key. The diesel engine roared to life. I looked at her and said, “We drive.”

Dottie stared at me. “That’s not a plan.”

I pursed my lips. “It’s Phase One.” Every excellent disaster started with a first step. I was choosing to believe this worked the same way.

I glanced through my window and saw the loud diesel rumble finally caught the handler’s attention as he turned around. His expression slowly transformed from mild confusion to absolute horror. You could practically watch the realization travel across his face one horrifying thought at a time.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, his face turning red. “Get the fuck out of my truck!” One hand flew into the air while the other still held his phone halfway to his ear. This wasn’t part of his usual morning.

“Well, that’s our cue.” I smiled weakly through the window. Then I waved. Why? I had absolutely no idea.

He shouted something I couldn’t hear and started sprinting toward us, phone still clutched in one hand and baseball cap bouncing on his head. The man moved surprisingly well for someone with such a generous middle.