Emergency

by Ann-Marie Giglio

Who knew things would turn out this way? Hannah shuddered, grabbed the car phone and punched in 9-1-1, all the while smelling blood she couldn't see, a red stench somehow seeping through her windows, her best friends in the car behind, frantic, arguing. It was a messy, loud, sudden death. She knew he was dead. He shrieked when the life flew out of him, crushed as he was by the car--not at all like her husband's dying, tubes sucking the juices from him for weeks before the silent, grey end.

Why today? It had began in the same dull way. Hannah, ignorant, knowing no new truths either before or after her coffee, had stood as usual, at her window, hating. This time, it was summer. This summer had laid down on Miami like a stinking, wet animal, clouds piling up on the horizon each morning like clumps of shorn wool. The humidity fatigued her, made her lazy. Worst thing was, she didn't care. She stood sipping bitterness from her cup, entranced by the clouds drifting, barge-like, across the Everglades far to the west. To the north, she saw long, dark strands of rain, brushing the ground like unbraided hair. Funny thing, being able to see to the horizon like that, as if it should somehow help. Perhaps it will rain here, she thought. Squash this heat. Heat. What had she to wear in this ridiculous heat?

The television news channel droned on in the background. Rubble-housed people with smudgy faces surrounded by civil war. News of one man, a chef, dressed in brilliant whites, standing in an enormous gleaming kitchen, fretting over the diets of cows in the Belgian countryside, the quality of his butter, his struggle for perfect clarity.

Humph, Hannah thought. Death is perfectly clear.

Another tourist murdered: it coasted to her from the screen. Such news on the heels of her death-thought! The tremor sliding through her spine rattled her china cup against its saucer. She walked to the television and clicked it off. She was late today. It was already time to dress for lunch. She would simply plunge her hand into the rack of clothing and see what came up.

Her leopard body suit. Hannah dressed quickly and then stopped in front of the mirror in her enormous closet to look. Tight black pants, matching belt, and heels--always heels. At five foot one, she needed the two or three extra inches to feel grown-up.

Miriam will hate this, she thought. She thinks I'm too old for Kamali. She'll think it slutty. But William would have loved this faux animal; fun he would have said. And see how her bra holds her little breasts like cupcakes on her chest. Delicious, he would have said. He was seventy-one when he died, but he still knew a good tit when he saw one. How he had loved her breasts. After lovemaking, as she drifted to sleep, her behind spooned into his stomach, he would trace circles along her spine, across her rib cage, across her chest, and then slide his fingers down to trace each breast, deciding which one to cup with his palm as he fell asleep. The memory soothed her. She pecked and fluffed her reddened hair with her fingertips exactly as Rene, her hairdresser, had instructed her.

I hope Miriam isn't smoking again today, she thought, as she tissued the dust from her mirror. The central air conditioner frosted the whole house with god-knows-what from May until October. The maid could not keep up with it--another reason to hate summer.

Newly engaged, Miriam had begun to smoke the day after her announcement. Hannah was certain it was only to spotlight the three carats plus baguettes. Miriam--such a creation--every breath scripted, performed. She tilts her head and opens her eyes wide as if to pour out the sincerity like liquid proof, and then she waits for the response, or at least a reflection. Hannah deduced this was why Miriam had never really made it as an actress. Miriam could not, for one second, forget Miriam. Good thing, Hannah thought, that this time, at her age, she is marrying real money.

Dorothea would be there also, not wanting to eat, nibbling on some dish of romaine, fidgeting, fussing, while pinching bits of food from Hannah's plate. Brainiest of the three, Dorothea sold pharmaceuticals until an early retirement last year, after she inherited a portfolio from an older brother. Since then, she did not do anything that Hannah could see besides diet, and that she did badly. But given a choice, Dorothea had no idea what she wanted. She grew up in her brother's shadow, buffeted about by his waves, never her own, always trying to please everyone in hopes of being noticed for her agreeable manner; sales had come naturally for her. When she turned the portfolio over to a manager, exactly what Hannah thought Dorothea with her smarts should do herself, she was relieved. Hannah was baffled. Why wouldn't Dorothea want to manage her money and keep active? Hannah sighed. Her friends' lives were so easily dissected, repaired, re-assembled. Why couldn't they see that?

Hannah was the youngest of the three, widowed at forty-nine, her husband William, dead a year. She was cast adrift, bobbing. When had she become so dependent on him?

Miriam and Dorothea thought her life perfect and she so lucky, everything taken care of for her by William's son, that enormous house, that girlish figure. Hannah ate with abandon at their lunches and never gained an ounce. But she rarely ate at home. Eating alone frightened her; its silence surrounded her like punishment, though she never knew what her crime had been. Perhaps marrying a much older, divorced man. Perhaps her failure as a wife: her dead William's need for a mistress, the mistress Hannah denied until, at the end, the woman turned up at the hospital, waved off by William, tubes swinging, cleanly erased with his gesture when she stepped through the door. She had stopped, foot in the air, backed out, and was never seen again, punished, Hannah thought, also. This need for penance followed Hannah around all day, buzzing in her ear like a swamp mosquito. Always, she took courage from black coffee, cup after cup, the stronger, more bitter, the better. And occasionally, she sought her rum haze.

For more than ten years, these women had had drinks, lunches, dinners. Empty spaces in their calendars drew them together. This stinking day, however, tempted Hannah to stay home, lazy, alone, undisturbed by diamonds and diets. But such a funk. Hannah needed a drink and she refused to drink alone. She looked forward to the two she would quaff before the appetizers were gone. She drank to fill her, to shove out the loss of William and his peculiar presence--an absence, really--the hollow cold spot, her private poltergeist. Her jaw ached with missing him. The silence of her enormous house, her bed, pained her. Some days, she talked to the maid, a cubic, stout woman from El Salvador whose Spanish sounded so swallowed, so slurred, so careless, sometimes she thought, so lazy, Hannah, a former translator, could barely understand it. Apparently, their years of civil war had taught them not to open their mouths. Yes, lunch with Dorothea and Miriam would be fine.

She plucked her purse from the dresser, made a kissing noise to her new parakeet, Travis, as she flew past him, and left the house.

Palm trees waved quietly in the hot breeze. The street was empty. The sun glistened everywhere, on everything, white and sharp. It was eleven-thirty and the heat was already unbearable. Hannah made the sign of the cross, checked her mirrors twice, and started the car, a new Mercedes. Quite suddenly, the thought of the murdered tourist reared up before her. What would she do, she wondered, if she were attacked in broad daylight, without William? Someone might want this very car. She shuddered. She could think of no answer.

It would take twenty minutes to drive to the restaurant where they were meeting. She gave herself an extra ten because now everything was so uncertain.

* * * *

Michel, a thirty-five-year-old Haitian, was well-liked. It seemed he had something for everyone--a warm smile, an encouraging word, the patience of a saint, they all said. And he was understanding. Perhaps because he had such an imagination. Perhaps because he came from the island. Perhaps because although he himself had never suffered, he had witnessed suffering. In 1968, the father of his best friend was shot in the head one Sunday in front of their church, at noon, his blood staining most of his family. It was a miracle more had not been killed, but then, he was most likely the sole target. Rumor said that he had not kept up his payments to the Tonton Macoutes, that he had, in fact, refused to pay any more.

But perhaps Michel's understanding came from him knowing that he was lucky, in every way, and so he never felt above anyone, only that he had been given more opportunities, opportunities earned merely by the accident of his birth. His parents, Lucien and Margaux, owned a souvenir shop and a restaurant in Port-au-Prince. Given the hostilities, they decided to send Michel away to school, off the island, as soon as possible. So Michel attended boarding schools in Paris and Geneva, and eventually, university in Frankfurt. Lately, he has been considering postgraduate work in Washington D.C., something in international relations, something he can take home with him. The island tugs him more frequently now. Daily, the bougainvillea flowering outside his apartment window grows more and more like the one draped over the wall of his parents' garden, reminding him of the hummingbirds he watched as a child. He misses their dance, and the sound of his parents' laughter in the next room.

Michel has worked for the past three years at the U.S. Immigration office in Miami, interviewing green card applicants--their final, nervous interviews. And every Sunday, in weekly phone calls, he argues with his parents to move to Miami, to share his good life, to leave the danger behind, but they say no, they will await democracy. They have made all their payments and waited all these years, they can wait a bit longer. Besides, from their altitude, things look quite good, democracy or no.

* * * *

Hannah focused on her rum, this time over ice, a twist of lime. Her morning's funk lingered. I'm mad at the season. How silly, she thought. While she waited for the haze to rub it all away, she marveled at her drink's smoothness, and studied its color.

Miriam gushed about her wedding plans, her fourth marriage, the second time Hannah is her bridesmaid.

The rum reminded Hannah of something--tea, the keemun they had had in Paris the last time. . . and the beer--that horrible, yeasty beer--in the Munich biergarten. Such different drinks, such different places--but the same color. How? How everything? How did she come to be here, with these two women?

Miriam asked, "Does anyone publish a guidebook for the fourth wedding?"

Hannah looked up. "What does it matter at this point?" she snapped. "Certainly this is a situation demanding function, not form." She did not await a response before returning to her amber vision. One sip, and the heat of the alcohol filled her nostrils with a punishing burn. She hated Miriam. She knew it now, suddenly, swiftly. A shout rose in her throat.

Miriam took this harshness to be natural jealousy, and having just purchased a Givenchy wedding ensemble, felt she could afford to forgive Hannah this time. After all, who wouldn't be jealous? A good looking man, older than she, no prenuptial agreement, no children to share anything with later. Poor Hannah. Her stepson in Paris controlled all the money. Miriam leaned toward her water glass, slightly, imperceptibly, and checked her reflection.

Dorothea was silently totaling the number of calories in the food and drinks on the table at that moment. She did not respond. She hoped the storm would pass unnoticed if she said nothing. Hannah began eating a bread stick and Dorothea adjusted her total. Then she asked, "Did you hear about the poor tourist?"

"No," Hannah said. Now, she was very curious--with enough information, she might be able to formulate a defense if she were ever attacked. "I mean yes, but absolutely no details." She waited.

Miriam looked confused. She frowned very slightly. "Tourist? What about my wedding?"

Dorothea knew she could nibble with abandon at Hannah's lunch, so, leaning towards her, she said, "Yeah, just horrible. A woman this time."

"No. . ." Hannah was stunned. The possibility had not occurred to her. Bloody violence is men's business. Hannah focused her haze on Dorothea's face.

"Run over by her own rental car. This time they decided to take the car as well, and the poor woman refused to let go of her purse. They dragged her, with her arm, stuck in through the window. Next thing you know, she falls and somehow gets pulled under the wheels."

"My god. . ." Hannah trembled a bit. The chill. She gulped some rum.

Miriam said, "I'm sure it was the same fake accident that stopped her in the first place, got her out of the car." She tossed her head. "She's a fool."

Dorothea lost the calorie total for a moment, panicked, but it came right back to her. She really had a wonderful head for calculations. Normally, when Hannah wasn't in one of her moods, she encouraged Dorothea to use her talent, and flung suggestions at her.

"Wait. How did she get under the car?" Hannah couldn't help herself. She tried to picture the situation. Was the woman squished, cracked, lying on the street with the juice running out of her like one of the palmetto bugs she sometimes had to kill in her house? Did blood trickle from the sides of her mouth?

"Once," Miriam injected, "I was in a dead woman's apartment. It was, I mean if you can imagine, quite--creepy. In fact, I even tried on one of her coats."

Hannah glared, angry for the interruption. "Oh, Miriam, she had already been dead for years. Anyway, do we need to hear this again?"

"What?" Miriam sat up straight, leaned a bit, and saw her reflection in the glass panel behind Hannah. How nicely her hair fell around her face in this posture!

This time Hannah saw Miriam's shift in her seat, her glance, the slight tilt of her head, the restrained look of pleasure. "Oh, you know you don't give a damn about the dead woman or her coat. You only tried it on so you could shudder about it later."

"Hannah!" Miriam sat back. Her cigarette hovered in the air like a hummingbird. She snuffed it out.

Hannah leapt up from her chair. She did not want to scream at Miriam here. "Would you--excuse me, please?" Before they could respond, she was gone. She walked quickly away, but was stopped by a large, clear window. The view absorbed her. Sailboats, pure white sails, clean seagulls, blue water, clouds, all moving with slow, calm precision. She took a deep breath. How, she wondered, had she put up with these two for so long? Especially Miriam. Had William been such a distraction for her? Some kind of magnet which pulled her away from the world? She turned from the window and practically ran to a bar stool.

Sitting, legs crossed, ankles, too, she raked her hand through her hair, angrily. Why? William had always encouraged her friendship with them. Why? To have his affair? What was wrong with her? Had she been used? Her hand stopped mid-air as she tried to answer the question. She did not know. She had no idea. All those phone calls William had ended curtly when she entered the room, the glances she always suspected between William and Miriam--suddenly his method had flesh. Perhaps he even paid Miriam to distract her. How would she know? If anyone could pretend to be a friend, it was Miriam. Stunned, she asked for a glass of water. Then she called the bartender close to her ear, and said, "Thank God that woman over there never had children." She tugged her head in Miriam's direction, though the bartender neither saw nor cared who she referred to. He wearily maintained his mask. Hannah went on, "Oh, yes, she would just dress them up, and dress herself, and take them to the park and sit, admiring their family-like reflection. And that would be that." This revelation calmed her. "She thinks life is one long dress rehearsal." She stood up, smoothed her clothes, and returned to her seat.

Hannah sat down gracefully. Should she apologize? She said, "I hope you can forgive my jumping up like that. I--"

Dorothea saw the speech forming on Miriam's brow, and to distract her, she said, to Hannah, "Oh, forget about it, hon. Anyway, I wondered myself about the bleeding--that poor woman. Like, for example, would it be only of an internal nature?"

"Well, obviously," Miriam said, sitting back. She shook a cigarette from its package and lit it quite slowly, never once squinting. She would never, never, never risk crow's feet. Not even her ring's display took precedence over that maxim. She tasted the smoke, and wondered what to do about Hannah. She did not want any real confrontation. She thought about how protective her new fiancé was. If he were here, he would take care of Hannah. He would be taking care of everything from now on. She decided to write it off to one of Hannah's moods.

The waiter arrived, neatly cleared some plates away, brought other plates, silently made a small bow, and left. Dorothea's calculations began anew. Hannah had lately increased her caloric intake, Dorothea noticed, but she was so busy marveling at Hannah's never expanding waistline, she did not realize that Hannah was just ordering extra for her nibbling.

"Obviously?" Hannah asked. "Was the blood trickling out of the corners of her mouth like in the movies?" Hannah raised herself from her drink to look at Miriam. "And besides," she asked, "how the hell would you know, Miriam?" To herself, she added, you've never touched Death.

Ah, Miriam thought, she's more jealous than I imagined.

Hannah flew on. "Just because you're carrying a fortune in diamonds and you smoke now, doesn't make you an expert in anything. You don't even handle your cigarettes properly." She thought of William's swift, precise gestures back and forth, up and down, in and out of his mouth, like the square she was taught to raise her utensils in. Then she caught herself. She was insane to miss the very thing that had killed him.

"What? I should smoke differently?"

Dorothea couldn't bear another blow-up. They'd made it this far today pretty safely, not like last time. What was wrong with them? Miriam was smoking, Hannah drinking. Dorothea had had her own heartache, but unlike them, she had the decency not to bring it up, so she had never told them of her Antonio, her failure. "Miriam," she asked urgently, "are we all going to be able to have lunch at the yacht club next week? I mean before you are married?"

Miriam put out her cigarette, leaned over, stretched out her left hand, fluttered the diamonds under the light, and patted Dorothea's. "Of course, dear. I can get us in. Naturally, George has already listed me as his fiancé." She chuckled. "Not that you'd eat anything, sweetie."

Dorothea reddened. Miriam knew better than to say that. They never discussed Dorothea's diets. Hannah was about to pounce on Miriam for the remark, when Miriam added, "And you know, of course, it's one of the few clean clubs left."

"Clean?" they both echoed.

"You know," Miriam whispered, "clean. No blacks, no browns."

Dorothea raised her eyebrow.

"Oh, Jesus, Miriam, how can you be like that?" Hannah snarled. She looked around for the waiter in case she would need another drink.

"Like what?" Miriam was surprised. She straightened her ring as she spoke. Did she misjudge them? She thought they wanted to hear that or she never would have said it. Hadn't they discussed it before? After a moment's groping, fluttering, smoothing of wrinkles, she said, "I simply don't want to associate with drug dealers and such."

Hannah sighed. "Miriam, you wouldn't know a drug dealer if you saw one. Anyone here in this very restaurant could be one."

Dorothea sat silently.

"Well." Miriam paused for a beat, as her drama coach used to advise, and then added, "Who made you the expert? Do you know drug dealers?" Another beat. "After all, facts are facts. You read the newspaper. You watch the news. You see who they are. Even these disgusting people picking on tourists are black or something."

Dorothea popped up, "Well, it does anger me so, that they get away with such crimes. I mean not one of them has been caught, you know. It's just not fair." She paused. "I wish just once the tourist would shoot the thief." She sat up stiffly in her seat and tossed her head.

Hannah, surprised, inhaled sharply. If Miriam hadn't been there, she would have told Dorothea that she should, just once, punch Miriam in her precious jaw.

"Really," Dorothea added. "It's just not right."

The waiter glanced over and Hannah summoned him. "Yes?" he asked.

Hannah said, "An espresso, please. A double."

He left.

Miriam wondered, why is she clearing her head so early. She's not even finished with the entree yet.

The espresso arrived, and Hannah felt it shoot through her like ice water. She saw the poor dead woman, rolling over and over under her car. She saw the other tourists shot in theirs. She wondered for the first time how she really felt about others, blacks, browns, and didn't know if she had attacked Miriam's "unclean" simply to challenge Miriam or if she really meant it. How was it that she and William had never discussed race? Because they were white? How could she sit at this table with Miriam, clearly prejudiced, and Dorothea--what?--ambivalent?

The other two women watched Hannah withdraw and excused her silence, her frown. Since William's death, they had learned to expect this from her at some time during lunch, though they could not predict when it would strike or how long it would last. When it arrived, they often talked about Hannah right in front of her, though she never knew. After a good fret, they always concluded it was grief, and that one day, when Hannah met a new man, she would snap out of it and be her old self.

Hannah ate sullenly, silently, chewing questions. Damn. Her jaw ached. "My jaw aches," she said.

The other two exchanged glances. They waited. Hannah kept eating.

Miriam said to Dorothea, "Well, at least we agree on something-- these people just get away with too much. And why? Because they have more chutzpah."

Hannah's fork came up empty. Her plate was empty. She looked up. Her friends looked at her expectantly, as if she had been asked an important question. What could it have been?

"Dessert?" she asked. "No, I don't believe I'd like any today."

Miriam called for the check and made a great show of paying it. George had already given her a card. She showed it off like another diamond.

"Isn't he sweet? Already he wants to take care of me."

Hannah leaned over to Dorothea and whispered quickly, "Because he knows you cannot take care of yourself."

Dorothea covered her mouth and laughed.

"I imagine that you said something rude, Hannah. You have been such a schmuck all afternoon."

"Oh god, Miriam, stop. I only suggested a wedding present. You'll see."

Dorothea nodded vigorously.

They had to shop for dresses to wear to the rehearsal dinner. Miriam had made a point of insisting that they meet her new saleswoman at Neiman Marcus who knew everything about everything, and everyone. But what she really wanted was to be certain that Hannah wore something tasteful, not any of the tacky trash she sometimes showed up in, like today. Hannah took the keys from the valet, got in, adjusted her mirrors twice, made the sign of the cross, and pulled away. Miriam didn't drive and she hated Dorothea's car, but she preferred riding with her. Dorothea wasn't afraid to drive like Hannah was. Miriam got in and buckled her belt. "I don't know why that woman doesn't get a driver," she said, nodding at Hannah ahead of them.

"Perhaps she likes the privacy," suggested Dorothea.

Miriam had no idea. So she shifted her focus. "Dorothea, I know you like this car. But for the life of me, why don't you buy something--nicer?"

Dorothea didn't want to hear this again. Every time they rode together, Miriam whined about the car. In the privacy of her car, she raised her voice a tad, "Well, I clearly don't know why you ever ride with me, if that's how you feel."

"Now don't get all upset, dear. I just mean, with your money, you could have something that doesn't look like--like a rental car. Something classy. Sturdy."

Dorothea took a breath. "Miriam, I have already put 65,000 miles on this car without a single problem. Why should I change it?" She turned onto the roadway and gunned the engine a bit. "Don't you feel safe?"

"Dorothea, that's not what I mean." She adjusted her ring. "Oh, never mind. I'm just surprised you feel so strongly about this vehicle."

Hannah was directly ahead of them, driving exactly the speed limit, and now, unexpectedly, turning right.

"Where do you suppose she's going?" Dorothea asked.

Miriam shifted from her idle gaze from the side window and saw Hannah. "What in the world?"

Dorothea did not like this deviation. "Do you think she might know a short-cut?"

"Hannah? And just who would she learn that from? The maid?"

Dorothea reddened slightly. Hannah was her friend. "You know, Miriam, honey, you could just once try to be nice."

"What?" Miriam cried. "I am nice. I am very nice. Always. If there's one thing my mother taught me, it was to be nice. To everyone."

Hannah's mind drifted like a cloud as she drove. She barely saw the road. She knew the route by heart and she drove as if the car knew the way, too. When she turned off the main road, she had no idea why, or where she was. She was thinking about the smell of fresh lumber. The aroma of hot sawdust and sweating wood was almost culinary to her. So much construction in Miami, so much concrete and stucco, the rare bit of wood shone like a jewel. Three years ago, she'd had the deck on their house remodeled, and Hannah had spent many a morning, early, before the sun rose too high, standing by the work site, sniffing. Everything would come back: her childhood, forests in Pennsylvania, deciduous trees, crunchy piles of leaves, the damp odor of the shadows, all things she had missed so often, longed for so achingly, living her days in hot, palmy Florida. But now it was William she ached for, longed for. She had not once thought of forests since his death. So many things she had not thought of. What of this, this question of color, of race, of Dorothea and Miriam, of friendship, loyalty? She wanted to be rid of the two of them. She would be in the wedding, because she had already committed, but, she decided, not for one second more would she remain friends with either one of them. No more cocktails at Miriam's, parties which were simply a performance of Miriam with her things. Ugh. No more listening to Dorothea's diet plans and the echo of her emptiness. She drove and saw nothing of the changing neighborhoods, the shift from lushly landscaped yards and bright red tiled roofs fading to tiny, bland houses, neat but barren, palm-less dusty yards fenced in by chain link.

An enormous dog, what was it?, a shepherd?, lunged across the road, chasing something unseen, or was it being chased? It yanked Hannah into focus. "Oh," she said aloud. She didn't know where she was. She slowed down and looked around.

"Ah," said Dorothea. "She's slowing down. Maybe she'll pull over and read a map or something."

"Well, I hope not," said Miriam. "Not in this neighborhood. Look." Miriam pointed to some brown children playing in a front yard.

Dorothea said, "I--I--see. . ."

* * * *

Every Thursday, Michel bought four Lotto tickets: one for himself, his mother, his father, and his future wife, whoever she might be. He bought them at the same convenience store each week. He and the clerk, who had worked there for years, liked to make jokes about Michel's dedication and his methods. Sometimes he would pluck the numbers from license plates on the way to the store. Other times, he would stand at the counter and wait for numbers to come to him, the way the aroma of lime tree blossoms used to drift through his bedroom window in the cool of morning and come, unbidden, to his five-year-old nose.

Today, returning from his late lunch, he remembered the lottery tickets and had to turn around and take a short cut. He drove quickly, thinking about numbers. The cool green color of the car ahead of him, Dorothea's car, drew his attention. Mint, he thought. Like the sweet peppermint tea he was served after every meal in Morocco, on his summer trip the year before he graduated from University. Such a delicious memory. These must be the numbers. He pulled a bit closer to read the license plate. * * * *

No one saw the second dog. Hannah slammed on her brakes. Dorothea slammed on hers, stopping far enough back to avoid Hannah's car. But Michel was too late. He braked, but hit Dorothea's car ahead of him, and heard breaking glass. "Oh, damn," he said. "Just what I do not need." He backed his car up a few feet and got out to look.

Hannah thought she heard glass breaking, but with her windows rolled up and the radio on, it was difficult to hear anything outside the Mercedes. She could hear her own heart beat, but little else. She twisted around to look behind her.

Dorothea and Miriam rocked forward a bit when Michel's car hit them, but they were fine. "Oh, my God," said Dorothea. "Have we been in an accident?"

Miriam stiffened. She grabbed the rear view mirror and twisted it toward her. "Look," she whispered. "Looook."

Dorothea turned around and saw a man--no--a black man, his tie undone and draped like a scarf, white shirt open at the collar, his blackness glistening hot, piercing the windshield. She saw him get out of his car. Suddenly, she could focus only on his black skin shining in the spotlight of her gaze. "Oh, my God, Miriam, oh my God. What are we gonna do?"

Miriam glanced in the mirror, looked at Dorothea, and said, icily, "Did you mean it? About shooting the thief?" She reached over and put her hand over Dorothea's. For a fleeting moment, she realized this was what it felt like to direct, and the small surge of power made her shiver.

Dorothea sucked in her breath. He'll come to the car door with a gun now, she thought to herself--it isn't fair. It isn't fair. It isn't fair.

Michel stepped between the cars and looked at his headlight. Crushed. But really not much damage. Maybe it was his lucky day after all. The fender of the green car had suffered much more than his had, though something was hanging down, in the grill. He couldn't see it. He bent over to have a closer look, chuckling, thinking, isn't this a fine fine way to get the winning numbers.

Dorothea saw her chance. She threw the car into reverse and gunned the engine.

Michel heard the engine rev, heard his own scream, and tasted warm blood. More blood slid quietly from his ear onto his shirt. His body twitched, and his neck finished breaking as he hung there between fenders, between worlds, and he heard no more.

Hannah watched the whole thing. Very calmly, she put her car into reverse and backed right up to Dorothea's front bumper, locking her in place. Who could have guessed things would turn out this way? She smelled blood. She picked up her car phone and pressed 9-1-1.