Sheriff Gonagettcha sipped his coffee, staring silently at the single streak of scorched rubber on the asphalt. He followed its path to its termination in a pile of tangled metal wrapped around a poplar tree.

“Why am I out here again?” he muttered to the State Police deputy who had been the first one to arrive on the scene.

“Local accident gets local po-lice. I just got here first cause I was closest.”

“Where’s the victim?”

“They brought him back to the training facility. Said they’d have the team doctor check him out.”

“Did you do a sobriety check?”

“You see that?” The highway patrol officer pointed vaguely inside his cruiser, potentially referring to any number of new – and obviously expensive – electronics devices that were integrated into the dashboard. Paid for, no doubt, but one of the State Highway Department’s benefactors in the tangled web of United Way charities that ensured teams were able to address off-field incidents well before news hounds caught wind of them. “It says he was just fine. Plus, it was just after practice, he wasn’t drunk.”

Having spent two years working in Santa Clara while Aldon Smith was still playing for the 49ers before ‘retiring’ and heading north to Renton, Gonagettcha wasn’t quite so sure he agreed with the deputy’s deduction. But he shrugged. If the driver was drunk, he’d only hurt himself. Although, Gonagettcha surmised wryly, the driver’s insurance premiums might also feel a little sting in the coming months.

“Kinda funny, though,” the deputy continued, “he did sort of sound like he was on something. Started yelling that the car took off on its own, drove him straight off the road and into the tree. Swears he never even touched the gas.”

Gonagettcha raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure his insurance agent is gonna love that story.”

“You want to sign off on my field report so I can get out of here?”

“Sure. You mind if I copy your notes?”

“No problem. Come on, let’s sit in the car, I’ve got the air conditioner running.”

The two men settled in; the deputy in the driver’s seat and Gonagettcha as a passenger in the parked vehicle. The deputy handed him a clipboard with a standard form and Gonagettcha scanned it over and began copying details from the form over to a sheet of his own.

“Fred Jackson…this the new guy?”

“Indeed.” The deputy sat numbly, gazing out the cruiser windshield. The silence between the two men was broken by a soft buzzing noise, which intensified slightly as the deputy pulled a personal cellphone out of his pocket. The deputy poked at the screen with his fingers a couple of times, then sighed.

“What?”

The deputy turned to Gonagettcha, holding up his phone. “You hear of this thing, twitter?”

“Nope.”

“It’s an internet thing. I sign up to follow people, they squawk when things happen, then twitter tells ME.”

“So what’s it say?”

“I don’t know how on earth these guys find stuff out so quick – but it says Jackson hurt his ankle in the crash. Nothing too bad, but he’ll be out for a few weeks. Looks like the ‘Hawks are going to have to give this new kid a try instead. Michael.”

“Michael…?”

“2nd round pick out of A&M.”

“What’s his last name?”

“That is his last name.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Christine.”

“Huh.” Gonagettcha thought about that old Johnny Cash song, and in a low voice sang “if a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough.”

“Yep,” the deputy agreed, snickering. “Named after a girl.”

Gonagettcha froze. His brow furrowed.

“What?” The deputy noticed.

“Oh, nothing. Just sounded like your engine revved up just then. Just as you said that.”

The deputy looked unconcerned. “Must need some extra power for the air conditioner.”

“Yeah,” Gonagettcha agreed. “Must be that.”