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Petra recruits Diana and others to organize a candlelight memorial in the square. It gives people a focus for their grief. I'm still stopped at every step through town, people asking how and where and, mostly, the unanswerable why. But they are kind, too, and thoughtful. The cooks bring dinner to the station. Isabel drops off a bottle of her best Scotch. The guys at the bakery run the ovens late to make cookies for the memorial, and they bring by a dozen with a thermos of coffee. People ask what they can do to help, anything, anything at all--that's what I hear, even more than "What happened out there?"
I'm at Beth's clinic when she examines the arm. That is true hell, because she's examining the partial remains of a girl she loved. Her pain is palpable and almost too much to bear, but she insists on doing it. Anders helps until she snaps at him, so uncharacteristic for her that even Dalton jumps.
The arm was cut off at the elbow. Chopped with an axe, she guesses, like Powys's legs. She believes it was done post-mortem. I don't know that's possible to tell given the condition of the arm, but I don't question. This small mercy is all they have--to hope Abbygail's passing was painless.
I write the report for Beth as she dictates. Then I'm back at the station, compiling a full report. It's late now. I have no idea how late. I don't check because it doesn't matter. I will work until the work is done.
When the door opens, I get to my feet, expecting townspeople and ready with my script. Yes, we found Abbygail's remains. No, we don't know anything more. Yes, there will be a memorial service. Yes, you can help with that. Speak to Petra--
Dalton walks in.
I hover there, over my seat, and say, "Hey."
"Saw the light on," he says. "Figured it was you."
He comes in and, for once, he doesn't head straight to the back deck. He just stands inside the doorway.
"I'm sorry," I say. Then I grimace. "I've said that already, haven't I? Said it and said it and..." I inhale. "And now I'm rambling. Can I get you anything?"
He shakes his head, walks to the coffee station, and I see there's a bottle in his hand. Tequila. He pours rough shots into two mugs.
"If there's anything I can..." I begin. "I mean, whatever you..." I slump back into the chair. "I'm just making it worse, aren't I?"
"You're fine."
"No, I'm not. I suck at this. At least, I do with people I know. I'm actually good at it with strangers. On the job, I was usually the one to break the news and stay with the families. Surprisingly."
He brings over his mug but leaves mine on the counter. "Why surprisingly?"
I shrug. "I'm not exactly warm and cuddly, as you may have noticed."
"Doesn't mean you don't care."
My cheeks heat at that, and I rise to retrieve the tequila shot he left me.
"Hold up," he says. "Need to ask you to do something before you drink that."
I sink back into the chair. "Sure."
"You sew?" he asks.
"What?" I'm sure I've misheard.
"Sew. Needle. Thread." He takes both out of his pocket and sets them on the desk. Then he peels off his jacket to reveal a gaping wound on his upper arm.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"I nicked it coming out of that tight passage."
"Nicked it? You ripped your arm open, Eric."
He'd pulled his jacket on as soon as he came out of the passage, hiding the wound because it wasn't the time. Now, five hours later, it is finally the time.
"You need to get that fixed," I say. "There's a limited window for stitching before the wound starts to heal, and it's too late to pull it together..."
Stitching. Sewing.
I look down at the needle and thread. "You're asking me to sew your arm."
