He's heading back to town. Ahead of him on the right shoulder, something is moving, something big. He slows down and sees that it's a cow, a holstein, wait a minute, there's another one in front of it, and another. They're running. 13, 14, 15, 16, he keeps counting, driving slowly. He hits the high beams and sees them stretched out as far as the light reaches, an entire herd of holsteins hoofing it from their farm to town on the shoulder of Highway 71. 37, 38, 39, 40, 41. In the distance, lights are flashing. 50, 51, 52.

        Tomorrow, in the paper, he'll read how the cows wandered off a farm about fourteen miles south of town and were stopped nearing the city limits at 2:40 a.m. A patrol dispatcher will say, "I think we found some of the fastest cows in the state."

        As he gets closer, he sees police cars and pickups parked on the other shoulder. 64, 65, 66, 67. Police and others scatter across the highway and ditch, waving their arms and flashlights at the leaders of the herd. 78, 79, 80.

        They are two miles from the city limits. Who knows what would have happened if they hadn't been stopped? 81. If they had gotten all the way to town? 82. Two more miles, that's all they had left! 83. And they could have made it! 84.