I wondered how many people drive by and mistake it for a snow drift. Some parts of the pile were even stained brown, much like how snow drifts get dirty as the winter goes on.
Large, fluffy flakes were falling from the pale grey sky. Although the snow wasn't sticking yet, the gravel that Doug's tires crunched over was already dusted in a layer of white. It was sand that coated the ground, much sharper and finer than the lovely puffs of water crystals descending from the heavens.
Doug pulled closer so I could take a picture. My phone clicked and the shutter closed, capturing the evidence.
"I can't believe it's just sitting out here in the open," I muttered. Doug pointed across the road.
"That's our city's premier family park. When the wind kicks up it blows over there."
As we fell silent again, I could feel the tension building. We were trespassing, after all. Our ruse of being lost tourists would only last so long. A freight truck had pulled into the rail yard ahead of us, and the driver must have noticed us by now.
It was now or never.
