By Scott Gould
Her voice filled the haze:
“Did you see…”
“You never caught on.”
“Not an accident.”
And then the darkness returned.
* * *
Light and shadow danced before him. The rush of wind filled his ears. And thumping, infrequent but steady.
“Are you awake, Mal?” Amy’s voice. It didn’t sound so sweet now.
“I asked if you’re awake.”
The world appeared hazy and distorted, as though he were viewing a film through a blurred lens. More lights, blinking and shimmering. Where was he?
“Mal? I’m asking you a question. I gave you fifty CC’s of Ketamine, and I’d like to know if it’s worn off.”
The view became clearer, and he realized he was looking out a car window. Why is the view sideways? Oh. Of course. He was sprawled out on his side, his hands bound with some sort of thick cord. He tried to sit up, but even that simple effort made his stomach lurch.
A blur of white and yellow appeared as the morning sun glanced off car windshields. Mal squinted against it, as though seeing sunlight for the first time in years. Amy’s window had been rolled halfway down, accounting for the droning sound of the wind. He still couldn’t figure out where the thumping came from. Something on the roof, it sounded like.
Then something else struck him: he was in his own backseat. His trusty old Nissan Altima, with the beat-up Rand McNally Atlas sliding around next to two Styrofoam coffee cups on the floor.
“Here,” he managed to mutter.
“I’m here. I’m awake.”
“Good. Because there’s a question I’ve been anxious to ask you.”
He attempted once more to sit up. Less nausea this time, but it still felt as though his brain had been stabbed with an ice pick. Best to stay down for now.
“Mal? I’m talking to you. I told you I have a question.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Did you know?”
“Did you know that it was me who ran over your wife?”