Fire crews are normally pretty energetic, happy to get a chance to do what they train so hard for. Police officers can be stern, and often exasperated at the circumstances, but will usually give the reporter some time. But when there's a death, everything is slow.
On a deserted Mt Bruce road, it's an astonishingly clear night, with the heavens painted across the sky, but it feels like a fog has descended. The few cars and trucks, backed up, have turned around and departed like a despondent crowd at a losing football game.
Overhead, the Life Flight helicopter has also been given the message, and it heads back to Wellington empty-handed. As members of the public go, I'm the only one left.
There are fire trucks and police cars and signs and road cones, and now a tow truck. It's like a grand amphitheatre, surrounding blackness. When you step beyond the strobes, the dramatic stuff cuts off, and suddenly you can see the crashed car.
There's nothing extraordinary about it. It just looks very small.
Last night, someone was probably waiting for that car to get home. In Wairarapa, there's a solid predictability to someone's route and timing, because the route is obvious.
When you get in your car, tell yourself you owe it to your loved ones to make it home. The greatest reward is your safe arrival. Live up to it.
