"I need to see you. Now." He was gasping for breath. Unknown number, calling from a room. Or from a bar. I spent the next half hour trembling, despite the thick coat, wiping the moisture from the front window to see him approaching. I had given up the role of the guard and had retreated to the couch when the light of his headlight painted the inside of my eyelids red. I heard a growl as he stopped the car, then turned off the engine, but not the dashboard lights. I opened my eyes, briefly enjoyed the ceiling, as if I knew that once I got up, my life would change, and I left the house. Michael was sitting in the car, his head on the steering wheel. I cut the lonely headlight in half as I passed in front of the hood to knock on the driver's window. Michael got out of the car. His face was ashen.
"You're lucky," I said, pointing to the broken headlight. "Kangaroos can do serious damage." "I hit someone." "Ah." I was still half asleep, so I barely realized he said someone, not something. I didn't know what people said in such situations, so I thought it was a good idea to agree with him. "A guy. I hit him. I have him in the back." Now I was awake. In the back? "What the hell do you mean you have him in the back?" I said. "He's dead." "In the back seat or the trunk?" "What difference does it make?" "Have you been drinking?" "Not much." He hesitated. "Maybe. A little." "In the back seat?" I took a step and reached out to open the door, but Michael stopped me with his arm. I stopped moving and said, "We have to take him to the hospital." "He's dead." "I can't believe we're even discussing this." I ran my hand through my hair. "Come on, Michael. Are you sure?"
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