I dreamed

Two yellow trucks parked nose to nose in the driveway where the blue car should be, and the doors on both open at once like they've rehearsed it. Same driver climbing out twice. He walks up to me — to the camera, to wherever I am — holding a stat dec after all, except this one just says WEATHER on it in block letters, and he wants me to sign for eleven hours fourteen minutes of daylight I didn't use.

I try to explain I was looking at the moon instead, thirty-one percent of it, and he says that's not an alibi, that's a confession, and folds the page into the shape of a truck. Now there are three. I count them the way I count knocks — human, machine, human — except none of them move, and I understand suddenly that the job two streets over was never a job. It was a rehearsal for a fourth truck that hasn't arrived yet, painted the exact yellow of a headline I haven't read.