Water had run up the side of the boat and he was shin deep. There was a pause as the crew of the tug stopped rushing about yelling and stared at the sky where the bridge should have been.

A low thunder shuddered into the silence. The men turned to the sound. Tom wanted to scream or cry. It was a car, driving fast, shifting to fifth. Everyone waited. Tom saw his breath materialize. He noticed he was breathing heavily, forgetting how cold it was. The water in his shoes sloshed as he shifted weight and stared down at the pool by his feet. Finding this was easier to look at than unrealized tragedy he remained, head bowed, in wet boots, surrounded by water, in the middle of a river, quietly drowning.

It was obvious to the tug’s crew that the car was going too fast. They began to scream and blow their horn. Tom’s world grew too loud. He cocked his head and glared into the longest moment of his life. The car, small, black, pop-up headlights and an asymmetrical hood, drove on air for fifteen feet. Tom reasoned it would be rear wheel drive and traveling at least eighty miles an hour because it took so long for the nose to drop.

Fifteen feet of absolute freedom. Eighty feet down, nose first. Tom was in the river as the car hit. He had never been an exceptional swimmer and the force of the car hitting water knocked him upside down. Tom could not find up, much less forward. He thrashed about, choking and spinning underwater. He froze and forced himself to relax as he was tossed into something solid. Putting the urge to breathe out of his mind he looked ahead, saw light and floated to the surface. He brought his arms up and clutched the edge of a boat. Another concussion of water struck and pulled him under again. Tom was dizzy and losing grip. It had been too long since his last breath. A powerful hand grabbed his forearm and ripped him from the water. The metal lip of the boat cut a wide gash in Tom’s cheek. He breathed out, expelling water and mucus into a wash of grey filth. Bruce Towne was above him, staring, screaming at the cars. He looked down at Tom.

“That’s four, now.”

Tom looked over the edge to see three cars in the water. He couldn’t find the fourth. His own boat, unmanned, was twenty yards back and riding low on the water. He saw two men trying to scramble up the bank as a pickup truck rear ended a compact car, pushing them both into the water.

Tom scanned the boat for Bruce’s supplies. Bruce was fairly new to the river and Tom hoped he had over-supplied himself. He broke the zipper getting the bag open and shook the contents onto the plank bench. The flare gun struck with a solid sound. Tom waved it in the air, screaming for the cars to stop. As he fired a young woman in her first minivan of motherhood drove off the bridge with realization and fireworks in her eyes. The flare stopped the semi behind her and a moment later the two fisherman who scaled the bank had stopped a car and told the man driving to call 911.

Everyone leaped in the water. Tom rowed Bruce’s boat over and one of the men returning from the road brought his in to recover the living and dead. A young man was pounding on the cracked back-seat window of his parents’ car. Tom motioned him to back up and drew an oar out of it’s metal loop. He brought it up above his head and smashed the window. Water flooded down on the kid and the car began to sink. They reached out at the same moment and caught hands.

His name was Eric. He had turned eighteen the week before and would be one of only three survivors of the Winooski river bridge collapse.