High up in the mountains, where the snow sits on the peaks like white hats, there was a gem mine called Copper Ridge. And every evening, before the mine closed for winter, a big yellow dump truck named Dex would carry the last load of rubies and sapphires down the winding mountain road to the sorting shed below. Dex's bed was piled high tonight — red rubies, blue sapphires, and a few orange stones that caught the light like tiny flames. His headlights clicked on, one after the other. The cold mountain air smelled of pine and stone dust. He rumbled forward. *Tip and rattle, tip and rattle* — that was the sound of a full load, and Dex loved it.
The road wound down through tall dark firs, past a waterfall frozen halfway, past a sign that said COPPER CREEK BRIDGE — HALF A MILE. Dex's big tyres crunched over frost. He could already see the sorting shed lights flickering on in the valley far below. Then he rounded the last bend — and stopped. There, right in the middle of the bridge, sat a boulder. A massive, grey, mossy boulder, big as a garden shed, blocking the whole road. The creek rushed and churned beneath it, dark and deep and far too wide to drive around.
*Tip and rattle, tip and rattle.* The gems shifted in his bed. Dex looked at the boulder. He looked at the creek. He looked at the sorting shed lights, getting brighter as the sky got darker. He could not push the boulder — too heavy. He could not wait — too late. Then Dex had an idea. He didn't need to push it. He could *scoop* under it. Very slowly, Dex raised his bed — the hydraulics let out a long, steady *whiiirr* — tilting his whole load of gems up and back. He inched forward until the front lip of his raised bed slid just beneath the boulder's mossy edge.
Then he let the weight of all those rubies and sapphires do the work. *Tip and rattle, tip and rattle* — the load shifted back, the front of his bed lifted, and the boulder rolled — slowly, slowly — off the side of the bridge. THWUMP. It hit the soft mudbank below and sank in up to its middle. Dex lowered his bed carefully. Every gem was still there.
Then a small angry face appeared from a crack in the boulder. Round brown eyes. Puffed cheeks. Bristling whiskers. It was a marmot — a very, very indignant marmot — who had been tucked inside that crack, fast asleep, cheeks packed with seeds for winter. She stared at Dex. Dex's engine gave one apologetic little *tick*. The marmot looked furious. Then she noticed the gems in Dex's bed, glittering in the last sliver of evening light. She spotted one small orange stone — round and smooth, exactly the colour and shape of her favourite acorn. Her whiskers stopped bristling. She reached up one tiny paw, tucked the orange stone under her chin, and disappeared back into the hillside without another word.
Dex rumbled across the bridge, down the last loop of road, and backed up to the sorting shed doors. He raised his bed one final time, and — *RATTLE-CRASH* — a whole winter's worth of rubies and sapphires tumbled into the sorting bins in a glittering, clattering rush. *Tip and rattle, tip and rattle.* All done. He rolled back to the garage slowly, his empty bed resting flat, tyres quiet on the smooth road. Inside the garage, the air smelled of engine oil and cold metal. Dex pulled into his spot. His engine ticked once, twice — then went still. His headlights dimmed. His empty bed settled down with a soft, low clunk, and there he sat: yellow and quiet and parked in the dark.
