I don’t have to worry about the gears or the clutch or the gas pedal, and I can concentrate on keeping the wheels on the gravel. The truck picks up speed as we come down the slope, but I’m not worried because I know it’ll slow down by itself when we hit the flat. I can see Franklin’s truck by the side of the tent, and I want to make a good impression. But we get going a little faster than I expect, and halfway down the hill, the truck slips off the gravel and buries the right side tires in the soft ruts on the shoulder. My father is thrown against the door, and instead of hitting the gas and horsing the truck back onto the road, I hit the brake. Hard. Which is the wrong thing to do. “Gas!” yells my father. But it’s too late. The tires dig in, the springs bottom out, and the truck pitches forward on its nose. There is a terrible screeching sound as the boxes slide the length of the bed and slam into the back of the cab. This really ruins my concentration, and I stand on the brakes and ride them all the way down.
