While my father and I were talking in the living room of the Gallia County Farmhouse, I noticed some of my things piled on top of a large tan wooden box, and decided they shouldn't be there in the living room. I picked the stuff up – mostly clothes and a few cardboard boxes – and carried everything to the bedroom upstairs which I had been using as my own. When I returned downstairs, I thought I also needed to take the wooden box upstairs, because it also belonged to me and contained some important things.

But my father began talking, and I listened to him. He spoke of how my sister had hung pictures all over the living room without first asking him. I looked at the pictures; they actually belonged to me. My sister hadn't asked me if she could put them up, but that didn't bother me; I thought they looked ok. My father also pointed to a long, white, embroidery hanging awkwardly on the wall. I tried to see if any figural designs were woven into the fabric, but couldn't discern any. My father also complained about the embroidery hanging on the wall, and I had to agree that the cloth wasn't appropriate.

My attention was distracted by something outside. I thought at first I saw a policeman on a motorcycle coming toward the Farmhouse along Symmes Creek Road on the other side of the bridge. But when the vehicle crossed the bridge, it resembled an oversized go-cart with seven or eight children packed into it. Whoever was driving the vehicle was weaving from one side of the road to the other. After crossing the bridge and turning the sharp curve in front of the Farmhouse, the car careened toward a small wooden building on the other side of the road, and crashed into it.

From my vantage point the crash didn't appear to be serious. As the children began climbing out of the vehicle, however, two remained inside and didn't appear to be moving. One small blond-haired boy (8-9 years old) turned toward the Farmhouse and ran up the stairs toward it. I was a bit perturbed, thinking he probably wanted to use the phone. When he reached the door, I opened and he stepped inside. Although he was young, he seemed as tall as I. I put my hand on his chest to slow him down – he seemed so agitated – and I noticed how solid he seemed.

Although he didn't communicate well, I quickly concluded that he wanted to use the phone, and I told him he would have to call collect. As he sat down in the chair by the door next to the phone, I asked him if he knew the number he was calling – I figured he was calling his mother. He said he did and I dialed "O." When the operator came on the line, I quickly told her this was a collect call, and that I was now going to give her the party making the call.

The boy put the phone to his ear and mouth, and began half-shouting out a number. Only now did I realize that the boy seemed spastic, almost as if he were epileptic. He had to repeat the number; I was unsure the operator understood it.

Meanwhile, I looked back outside, and was now surprised to see flashing lights from two or three police cars on the other side of the bridge. I kept looking, trying to figure out what was going on, finally calling to my father that something was happening outside. I stepped out onto the porch so I could see better. Finally I saw it – a truck was lying on its side in the creek. Someone had apparently driven off the road and landed in the creek.

By this time several other onlookers had gathered in front of the bridge, some even with cameras. I wished I had a camera to record the scene. A man was standing on top of the side of the truck. It first looked as if ice was on the creek; but then I saw that the water of the creek was clear and I could see all the way to the bottom. I remembered someone having recently told me that it was possible to see to the bottom of the creek.

Two men were on the side of the truck. They were holding something to carry a body on. It had a white sheet draped over it, but I couldn't tell if any body was under it. I wanted my father to come out and see what was going on.

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