her direction. "I told you to wait in the car."
"Is... is he...?" She couldn't finish the question.
"What's your name?" he asked as he took her shoulders and turned her back toward the road.
"Abby Whitman."
"From Preston?" He started them walking, keeping his body between her and the man on the ground.
"Yes." Although she'd known the truth the instant she laid eyes on the still form and the unnatural angles of his limbs, she forced herself to say, "Tell me! Is he--"
"I'm Deputy Trowbridge. You have any ID?"
"I lost it in the water. I fell... dropped my purse..." Her words accelerated as she spoke, as if in defense. "... it had my driver's license--"
"It's all right."
She offered, "The registration is in the van."
He held onto her upper arm as they crossed the roadside ditch. It didn't feel nearly as deep or as steep with his assistance.
When they reached the road, the EMS unit was pulling up behind the squad car. Deputy Trowbridge walked Abby straight toward it.
"Carl will take care of you," he said as he handed her off to one of the paramedics. The other walked away with Trowbridge.
Abby stood rooted in place, watching the deputy and the paramedic walk down the road following the bobbling beam of the flashlight. They weren't moving at a frantic pace.
As she watched their slow progression, a scream built in her chest. She gritted her teeth to keep it inside.
Carl the paramedic had picked up the blanket she'd dropped on the road and wrapped it around her again. "Let's go check you out." He gave a gentle nudge toward the EMS truck.
Abby wanted to run after the deputy, to demand the answer to the question she could barely comprehend, but her leaden feet moved toward the ambulance.
"Are you in much pain?" Carl the paramedic asked as they walked slowly toward the truck, his steadying hand on her elbow.
She shook her head; her jaw clenched against the scream, against the fear of irrevocable actions.
As they got closer, the rough rumble of the engine drowned out all other noise, and the sharp smell of diesel burned her nose and turned her stomach.
Carl helped Abby into the back of the truck; the diesel smell was less strong here, the lights blindingly bright.
He checked Abby's pupils and asked her a dozen questions which seemed aimed at assessing her cognitive skills. She answered absently, her mind whirring with the reality of what she'd done, while at the same time clinging to the thin hope that the motorcyclist was in better shape than he had appeared; he'd called 911 after all.
A few moments later, Deputy Trowbridge appeared at the open back doors of the truck. "I need you to take a sobriety test, Ms. Whitman."
"I haven't been drinking." Even though she couldn't remember anything of the past few hours, she was pretty sure her driving impairment wasn't caused by alcohol.
"Are you refusing to take the test?" he said coolly.
"I... no, I just haven't... of course I'll take it."
By the time Abby had taken the breathalyzer, two additional sheriff's department cars had arrived. The new deputies blocked off the road with a portable barricade topped with blinking yellow lights.
The other paramedic returned with his kit and no victim. They closed the back doors and headed toward the hospital with Abby sitting in the back. As they drove past the road block, she saw the coroner's van arriving.
Dear God. The worst was true. Her sleepwalking had finally killed someone.
Bryce awakened to realize he was still fully clothed on top of his comforter. It was three-thirty a.m. Light shone through the space between the bottom of his bedroom door and the carpet. His mom never left the lights on after she went to bed.
He nearly turned over and went back to sleep, but that light nagged him. Was Mom still up? Was she okay?
He should have spent the evening with her instead of shut up here in his room. But man, how much could a person take? All he'd wanted was some time without drama. And Mom was drama in spades.
He got up
"Is... is he...?" She couldn't finish the question.
"What's your name?" he asked as he took her shoulders and turned her back toward the road.
"Abby Whitman."
"From Preston?" He started them walking, keeping his body between her and the man on the ground.
"Yes." Although she'd known the truth the instant she laid eyes on the still form and the unnatural angles of his limbs, she forced herself to say, "Tell me! Is he--"
"I'm Deputy Trowbridge. You have any ID?"
"I lost it in the water. I fell... dropped my purse..." Her words accelerated as she spoke, as if in defense. "... it had my driver's license--"
"It's all right."
She offered, "The registration is in the van."
He held onto her upper arm as they crossed the roadside ditch. It didn't feel nearly as deep or as steep with his assistance.
When they reached the road, the EMS unit was pulling up behind the squad car. Deputy Trowbridge walked Abby straight toward it.
"Carl will take care of you," he said as he handed her off to one of the paramedics. The other walked away with Trowbridge.
Abby stood rooted in place, watching the deputy and the paramedic walk down the road following the bobbling beam of the flashlight. They weren't moving at a frantic pace.
As she watched their slow progression, a scream built in her chest. She gritted her teeth to keep it inside.
Carl the paramedic had picked up the blanket she'd dropped on the road and wrapped it around her again. "Let's go check you out." He gave a gentle nudge toward the EMS truck.
Abby wanted to run after the deputy, to demand the answer to the question she could barely comprehend, but her leaden feet moved toward the ambulance.
"Are you in much pain?" Carl the paramedic asked as they walked slowly toward the truck, his steadying hand on her elbow.
She shook her head; her jaw clenched against the scream, against the fear of irrevocable actions.
As they got closer, the rough rumble of the engine drowned out all other noise, and the sharp smell of diesel burned her nose and turned her stomach.
Carl helped Abby into the back of the truck; the diesel smell was less strong here, the lights blindingly bright.
He checked Abby's pupils and asked her a dozen questions which seemed aimed at assessing her cognitive skills. She answered absently, her mind whirring with the reality of what she'd done, while at the same time clinging to the thin hope that the motorcyclist was in better shape than he had appeared; he'd called 911 after all.
A few moments later, Deputy Trowbridge appeared at the open back doors of the truck. "I need you to take a sobriety test, Ms. Whitman."
"I haven't been drinking." Even though she couldn't remember anything of the past few hours, she was pretty sure her driving impairment wasn't caused by alcohol.
"Are you refusing to take the test?" he said coolly.
"I... no, I just haven't... of course I'll take it."
By the time Abby had taken the breathalyzer, two additional sheriff's department cars had arrived. The new deputies blocked off the road with a portable barricade topped with blinking yellow lights.
The other paramedic returned with his kit and no victim. They closed the back doors and headed toward the hospital with Abby sitting in the back. As they drove past the road block, she saw the coroner's van arriving.
Dear God. The worst was true. Her sleepwalking had finally killed someone.
Bryce awakened to realize he was still fully clothed on top of his comforter. It was three-thirty a.m. Light shone through the space between the bottom of his bedroom door and the carpet. His mom never left the lights on after she went to bed.
He nearly turned over and went back to sleep, but that light nagged him. Was Mom still up? Was she okay?
He should have spent the evening with her instead of shut up here in his room. But man, how much could a person take? All he'd wanted was some time without drama. And Mom was drama in spades.
He got up
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