I stopped my convoy truck in a flash flood—and the next morning my career was on the chopping block The rain was a solid wall against the glass. 2 a.m. My orders were simple. Drive the route. Do not stop. Then the headlights snagged on something wrong. An SUV, flipped onto its side, drowning in the floodwater on the shoulder. A man stood in the storm, his arms a frantic blur. The regulation was a voice in my head. Keep moving. A clean logbook was a clean career. But I could see inside the wreck.