"Maybe twelve extra minutes."
The paramedic shook his head.
"Too long."
Then another voice came over the radio.
A medical helicopter was available.
Plans changed immediately.
Emergency crews coordinated a safe transfer point at an open field several miles behind us.
We didn't interfere.
We didn't pretend to be paramedics.
We simply got out of their way and let professionals work.
Before the ambulance turned around, the father walked toward me.
I expected anger.
Instead, he stood there looking at my motorcycle.
Then he whispered:
"You saw that truck?"
"Just enough of it."
"And you knew?"
"I knew something was wrong."
He looked back toward the wrecked trailer.
"My son..."
His voice disappeared.
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Go with him."
He nodded.
Then ran back to the ambulance.
They left.
My brothers and I stayed until law enforcement arrived.
Officers took statements.
The truck driver was shaken but alive.
Nobody on the highway had been seriously injured.
Eventually, Route 12 reopened.
I went home.
For the next three days, I wondered about that boy.
I didn't know his name.
Didn't know which hospital he'd gone to.
Didn't know whether those six minutes had ultimately mattered.
Then Saturday morning, somebody knocked on my garage door.