And a mobile vehicle inspector examined the Chevrolet for obvious damage.
The inspection wasn't a final assessment.
It was a preliminary check to identify concerns before moving or driving the vehicle.
There were marks near one lifting point.
A small scrape on the lower edge of the rear bumper.
And indications that warranted further examination of the affected suspension and underbody areas.
None of those findings meant the truck was beyond repair.
But they mattered.
I took photographs.
Saved the report.
And arranged for an independent automotive specialist to complete a more thorough inspection.
My mother called around four.
She had heard about the incident from Jasmine.
"Marcus."
Her voice was tight.
"Are you all right?"
I closed my eyes.
"Yes, Mom."
"And the truck?"
"It's back on the ground."
She was quiet.
Then asked, "Was it damaged?"
"Some possible damage. We're checking."
I could hear her breathing.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she whispered, "Your father loved that truck."
My throat tightened.
"I know."
She took a shaky breath.
"Are you coming over?"
I looked toward the driveway.
The Silverado stood beneath the afternoon sun.
For a moment, I felt twelve years old again.
Standing in my father's garage after something went wrong.
Wanting him to tell me what to do.
I swallowed.
"Not tonight."
My mother was quiet.
Then she said, "All right."
I could hear the disappointment in her voice.
I hurried to explain.
"I need to deal with the attorney and the vehicle inspection. But I'll come tomorrow."
She nodded.
"Okay."
I took a breath.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not letting them take it."
Her voice broke.
"I know you won't."
I looked toward the truck.
Then whispered, "I promise."
After the call, I sat on the front steps for a long time.
The street had returned to normal.
Children rode bicycles.
A delivery van passed.
A neighbor watered flowers.
From the outside, nothing about Cedar Ridge looked unusual.