“A week?” Terry said, smiling a toothless smile. Then he started to chuckle. And then the chuckle grew into a laugh. “A week? Hell, City Boy, I don’t get back to the Salt Lake yard but every six or eight weeks, dependin’ on the workload! And the bottom line is, I ain’t done with you until I decide you’re fit to go out on your own, and sign off on your final road test. But plenty of time for all that. Your ass is mine for a while.” He slapped his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “I’ll make a trucker out of you, don’t you worry… Well, I’m going in the back to get me some shut-eye. Gimme’ a holler if you have any problems. But try real hard not to have any problems.”

He went back into the bunk, closing the curtain behind him.

‘Six or eight weeks,’ Ryan thought. ‘Good God, what have I stepped into?’