The Crashed Truck

My name is Alice Zimmerman. My father's name is Gunther Zimmerman. My father toiled abroad for thirty years. During these thirty years, he lived frugally, all for a single purpose. That purpose was to acquire cultural relics. In total, he purchased over a thousand cultural relics. These relics are precious treasures of our Country lost overseas. Today is the day we return to our Motherland. My father's face was filled with hope. He said that at last, he could bring these cultural relics back to the Motherland. We sat in the front passenger seat and rear seats of the cultural relics transport vehicle. Inside the carriage, more than a thousand cultural relics were carefully secured. Each was wrapped in thick protective cotton. Every box bore a label reading "Returned Cultural Relics." The vehicle travelled along the highway. Drawing closer to the city, and nearer still to the Museum. My father could not help but take out his mobile phone, scrolling through photos of the cultural relics. The smile at the corner of his mouth was impossible to hide. I too felt a surge of excitement, imagining how the relics would be exhibited. Suddenly, a harsh screech of brakes pierced the air. Instinctively, I gripped the handrail tightly. Before us, a red sports car suddenly sped across from the opposite lane. It drove against the traffic, heading straight toward our transport vehicle. The driver reacted swiftly and jerked the steering wheel sharply. The transport vehicle lost its balance and veered toward the roadside. With a loud bang. The transport vehicle toppled over onto its side. Glass shattered across the ground. I felt myself violently thrown out. My forehead struck a hard object, sending a piercing pain through me. Blood trickled down my cheek. I struggled to open my eyes. I saw my father lying on the ground as well, his body covered in blood. He was more seriously injured than I was, his arm twisted unnaturally. "Dad!" I shouted hoarsely as I crawled toward him. My father painfully lifted his head, but his gaze immediately fixed on the vehicle compartment. "The cultural relics... What happened to the cultural relics?" His voice was hoarse. I followed his gaze. The door to the vehicle compartment had been smashed open, and many cultural relics cases had tumbled out. Some cases were broken, exposing the edges of the relics inside. My heart tightened as I helped my father to his feet, slowly and carefully. At that moment, the door of the red sports car swung open. A woman dressed in glamorous attire stepped out. She wore large dark sunglasses and flawless makeup—clearly a celebrity. Only later did I learn she was the popular star Emma Robertson. Emma Robertson approached us, her brows tightly furrowed. She did not ask how badly we were hurt; instead, she pointed at our transport vehicle and shouted loudly. "How do you drive? Do you even watch the road?" I was stunned—it was plainly she who had been driving the wrong way. My father, wincing from the pain, stepped forward. "Madam, you were the one driving in the wrong direction first; we only overturned while trying to avoid you." "The cultural relics are now at risk of damage; could you please help us rescue them first?" Emma Robertson sneered coldly, folding her arms. "Rescue the cultural relics? It looks to me like you're just trying to stage an accident accusation!" "It's clearly your careless driving, yet you still want to put the blame on me?" Her words made me both angry and anxious. My father wanted to argue back, but Emma Robertson took out her mobile phone. She made a call, and soon several journalists arrived. The journalists appeared to have been ready in advance, crowding around with cameras and microphones. Emma Robertson began to twist the facts before the journalists. "Dear journalists, you must stand up for me!" "I was driving normally when this transport vehicle suddenly changed lanes and nearly collided with me." "Luckily, I reacted quickly and avoided an accident. Yet they had the nerve to slander me, accusing me of driving the wrong way and demanding compensation. This is clearly a staged accident accusation and extortion!" The journalists unleashed a volley of shots at us. The flashing lights dazzled me, making it impossible to keep my eyes open. They continued to question us, their tone laden with suspicion. "May I ask if you truly intend to orchestrate a staged accident against Emma Robertson?" "What exactly are you transporting in your vehicle? Are you deliberately using these items to extort?" I tried to explain, but was utterly unable to get a word in. My father trembled with anger, the pain from his wound draining all color from his face.