2am. The shrieked protest of braking tires against road, followed by loud and hollow connection. Metal on metal.

From my bedroom on the third floor on the hill, I can see the truck reversing and then driving away. It turns left and travels along the road parallel to the pond. I can see that, too, because my town-house faces the pond. I’ve got an unobstructed view.

The truck stops. I can still see its lights. I can see the colour, the body, and I can see the driver inspecting the front of his truck. I see him get back in his truck and drive slowly away. I see him turn left – this hill, third floor bedroom and vantage across the pond means I can see for blocks – and then park. His brake lights are on.

Now neighbours are emerging from safe havens of sleep to gather on the street. People are on cell phones.

An SUV is on the sidewalk.

I instantly believe in God and start praying no one is inside that car.

I call the police, and as I do that, I leap into jeans, a coat, and shoes and run out into the road.

My sister sees me leaving but I don’t have time to explain. I explain, instead, to the RCMP operator the location of the offending truck and driver. Everyone else is down the road, down the hill, on the street, and wondering what happened. From my perch, I could see – but I can’t see a license plate.

I cut across the grass around the pond to the SUV on the sidewalk and the three people in the street. A man is on the phone. It is his SUV. It was parked in front of their house. No one was in it, no one was on the street – it is just a parked car. Just a hit and run. Relief.

His car, though, is crumpled like a tin can at a frat party. There are chunks of his rims sprinkled across the lawn. The side of his car curves in to meet the front. It will not drive away unaided.

He asks me: Did you see what happened? I just heard the crash, came outside to see, and saw this. Did you see who did this?

I did. He’s parked two blocks away, around the pond and behind the park.

Another neighbour, who used to be a police officer in another province, says we should walk over there to see if we can see a license plate. But as we’re walking, he realizes that we can’t get close without exposing ourselves – there’s no houses, no reason for us to be there – and that’s a bad idea. A police officer, on his own, wouldn’t approach this situation, and they’ve got belts full of scary things and training. We stand beside the field. We can see across the field to the truck, which has now been joined by a car, presumably a friend.

I give my phone to my ex-police-neighbour and he calls the police, again, to explain that we can see where the truck is, and that it has been joined by another vehicle, a small white car. He walks a little further by himself to see if he can get a description of the other car.

I can hear my sister calling me but I can’t see her. Oh my goodness, she’s probably having a coronary: I rushed out the door, at 2am, in my polka-dot nightie, a suit jacket, and jeans – a confusing ensemble at any time, for sure – on the phone to the police, without saying a word to her, and disappeared across the park.

The owner of the car, a young woman, and yes, my sister, walk up the street and join us. My sister is visibly relieved. She’s been calling my name in the night; she called my phone which was answered by the neighbour – to her, some random person – to whom I lent it. (Fortunately, he said “Kelly’s phone” so it wasn’t as frightening as it could have been.)

Now we see a blue Tahoe pull up. Unmarked car. Down the block, two police cars are driving up the road. We wave the Tahoe down and direct it to the truck around the corner. As the Tahoe turns the corner, the small white car starts up and drives past it. It passes us on the street and passes the police cars, too. We can’t see who is in it, but we’re worried that the hit-and-run driver is inside.

We wave the first police car down and tell the officer about the white car. Both police cars pull hard u-turns and hit their lights which slice through the night while their sirens scream. The car engines roar.

They must have V-8s, says my sister, admiringly. And they must beat the shit out of those cars. It is all gas and brakes.

The Tahoe has reached the truck, and as it approaches, the truck starts up and starts to drive away, then stops. Another police car joins the Tahoe.

My neighbour pulls out his i-phone and starts dictating his statement while the events are still hot and sweaty.

(Is there anything an i-phone is not good for? If  Triffids had i-phones, that series would have ended very differently.)

Our work here is done. We’re all relieved. We’re all convinced that the driver of the truck had to have been drunk. It is Friday, 2 am, on a sidestreet with no obstacles and no traffic, and curving lines of rubber tracks burned into the street all the way to the SUV on the sidewalk.

It is cold. I’m wearing a black and pink silky thing over jeans with a suit jacket, and I feel silly. My sister and I walk back to our house and worry out loud about drinking and driving. Just a week ago, at 2am, she was nearly sideswiped by a cadillac, which she then followed and called in to the police. She also lectures me a little about how I scared her by fleeing the house in the middle of the night without explanation.

Back in the house, I put on a bra and a shirt, tame my hair and wait in my warm living room for an officer to arrive to take my statement.

Because freshly brushed hair has “concerned citizen” combed right through it.

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