Sana met me at the archive rather than the station. We opened Dad's boxes with an archivist present. His mile-nine notes described a temporary traffic-control plan approved after a rockslide. The plan had expired eighteen months earlier, but the detour sign remained. Drivers following it entered a shoulder maintained by a private road contractor. That contractor shared an address with the towing company named in two public complaints.

Dad had flagged the relationship without accusing anyone. He requested stop logs, tow invoices, and the name of the person renewing the sign order. The file ended before a response arrived because he entered hospice the following week. I had spent months believing his last papers were ordinary loose ends. Seeing his careful questions made grief feel like a task he had handed me, which was exactly the kind of story he would have warned me not to invent.

Sana pulled dispatch audio through official channels. Cole had radioed several mile-nine stops, but a supervisor told him to handle them as roadside assists unless an arrest occurred. That explained the missing incident numbers without excusing them. The audio also showed the tow operator receiving calls before some drivers requested help. Sana opened a formal review and arranged for the sign to be covered while engineers inspected the shoulder.

By afternoon, a rumor spread online that I had flashed my father's badge to escape a ticket and then complained anyway. The post included my license plate. I wanted to publish the receipt and every date in response. The diner server begged me not to. Sana advised preserving the original source while the review proceeded. I turned off my phone and wondered whether protecting an unnamed witness would allow everyone else to name me however they pleased. My hands hovered over the keyboard all night.