The engine of Arthur’s old pickup truck rumbled, a sound that usually brought him comfort, but today it just punctuated the rhythmic thwack-thud of his tires hitting the potholes in his driveway. His driveway wasn’t just a path to the house; it was a muddy obstacle course that swallowed small sedans and ruined Sunday shoes.
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An hour later, Arthur stood at the edge of the Black Rock Quarry. The air smelled of dust and ancient Earth. He watched as a massive loader dumped three tons of "Crusher Run"—a mix of stone and dust that packs down like concrete—into his truck bed. The suspension groaned, but the truck held. The engine of Arthur’s old pickup truck rumbled,
He pulled over at the local diner, where the "Old Guard" sat every morning. He slid into a booth next to Miller, a man who knew the lineage of every tractor in the county. An hour later, Arthur stood at the edge