“We’ll make it quick.”
I hedged. I didn’t really want to—I didn’t know why; having a ready excuse wit h
Rooster in town had been an unexpected relief. But I didn’t know how to say no to her.
“We’ll be quick,” she repeated, irritated.
When I got there, we skipped the chatting and got right to it. She was lifting my shirt
over my head when we heard a loud squeal followed by a sickening smash of metal on metal.
“Oh my God,” I said and started for the door. But she grabbed my shirt and held me
back.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “You told me you only have an hour.”
“What if someone’s hurt?”
“No one’s drowning. You’re a lifeguard, not an EMT.”
I extricated myself and flung open the front door. There was a young woman in a
compact car which was crumpled against a light post. She pushed aside a deflated air bag and
staggered out of the driver’s seat. She took a few steps, vomited, and then sat down heavily on
the curb, where she began to wail.
“Oh, come on, I don’t need this now,” I heard Mrs. Flanagan say. I was shocked by her
hostility, as if this poor woman had intentionally chosen the light post in front of Mrs.
Flanagan’s house to crash into. “She was probably fiddling with the radio. I mean, who just
plows into a lamppost?” she said.
It was awful. But Mrs. Flanagan’s irritation stopped me on the lawn, as if I owed my
allegiance only to her and helping this woman was some kind of betrayal.
17
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