I look up in my frenzy of a work shift to see the clock reads eight in the evening— The post-sunset crew. Figures why the place is crescendoing with patrons barely able to squeeze beside each other to approach the bar. The other staff weave through with customers’ food orders, Billie is run off her feet sorting deliveries, Todd is filling pint after pint, and all I want to do is hide in a dark corner for five minutes and take a breather. Instead, I continue to hold my smile and try to hear the orders above the thunderous harmony of conversations.

I rack up a tray of beers for a rowdy group of Australians at the front and put my waitressing skills to good use, making sure not to spill too much.

“Hiya, beautiful,” one of them says.

“Hey, fellas,” I reply. “We have five pints of IPA and a Corona.”

“Just set ‘em down, love. We’ll sort ‘em.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, course.”

“And while you’re at it, how ‘bout you take a break and have one on me?” says another. I reveal a reluctant polite smirk. I guess he’s cute but not my taste at all with his hipster beard and loud Hawaiian shirt.

“Super flattered, guys but I gotta stay at the bar. We’re way too rammed right now.”

“You enjoy it when it’s rammed, love?” His mates snicker.

“Scotty, show some fuckin’ decorum, mate. Anyway, love, come on. One drink.”

“No, really. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re gonna make our Marco cry,” another one laughs. “Your man at the bar can handle himself. Look, he’s onto it.”

I start to panic slightly as Marco has taken his hand and is now squeezing on my forearm so I can’t just walk away. It brings back bad memories I don’t want to spend the day thinking about. Sadly, this kind of situation has occurred more than once at this bar. I know to stay calm.

“Well, gentlemen, perhaps if you wait around I’ll be free when it’s a bit—”

“—Bit frigid, aren’t ya, babe?”

My frustration peaks. I snatch my arm back, accidentally knocking two of the pints all over the table and the floor. The Aussies creak their stools back and look down at their dampened clothing.

“Crap! Sorry! Lemme get some stuff to clean it up.”

“Fuck’s sake. Careful there, babe. You stain this, you’re buying me another one.”

I stutter in place as my anxiety tightens in my chest.

“Well?” they press.

I sidle through the customers to find the mop hidden in a closet…

Whoosh! A small gust causes that musty, sickly smell to waft into my nostrils. My anxiety climbs higher. The water in the bucket is grey and muddied…

My father’s white face appears behind my eyelids…

His pale face…

The sunken cheeks…

The feel of the night’s humidity…

The sharp ting! the shovel made as it hit rocks buried deep beneath the soil…

The memories are too real.

I trip backwards and leave through the back door into the dark, crisp night air. I wipe my brow onto my sleeve, not realizing how much I was sweating.

Bang!

I leap again as the door slams shut behind me. I cry out in fright. “It’s just the wind. Just the wind.”

“Shit,” I whisper to the night, knowing I have to make my way through the tavern again and walk beside the Aussie’s with no mop and no cloth.

I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. That’s when I realize I’m a good thirty feet down the street with no intention of turning back. I reason with myself I just need a break to stop my panic attack then I’ll head inside eventually. But I need five minutes… And five minutes turn to fifteen, then twenty.

The further away the low hum of the tavern gets, the more I regain some composure and calm. I hit the railway crossing and finally feel comfortable enough to stop and take a deep inhale.

Then a car approaches from afar with its headlights pointing directly at me. I stand further away from the road just in case they haven’t seen me. But instead of driving on, the car screeches to a stall. A young woman climbs from the driver’s side without turning off the ignition. She approaches me quickly. I consider removing my Swiss Army knife just in case.

“Excuse me!” She squeals before I have time to act. “Excuse me! I need your help, please. Please!”

I look over my shoulder to see if she may be talking to someone else also wandering in the dark.

“Hey, please help me!”

“What’s…What’s wrong?” I say and step out beneath a streetlight so we can see one another.

“Th—There’s been an accident. Someone’s been run off the road. I…I was just going to the store to get firewood and I drove by them just lying there. I don’t have a phone to use so I was just going to the store to call an ambulance. We need to call an ambulance.”

I make out the look of panic on her face and rest a hand on her shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. Where are they?”

“Uh, they’re like…back there, like, two miles, I guess…I think. I don’t know. I rushed to find help and I went as quick as I could. I don’t know this area very well.”

“Is someone still with them?”

“No. No! Shit! I panicked and figured calling an ambulance was the best way I could help.”

“Nearest ambulance is an hour away and the hospital is even further. If somebody’s hurt, it’ll be faster if we bring them in…”

“But… Do you have a cellphone or something?”

I glanced over my shoulder and shuddered at the thought of going back for my purse.

“No… Just bring me to the accident, if it’s bad, you can go back to get help.”

We speed toward Old Road.

Around a sharp bend, the black remnants of skid marks stain the road and a motorcycle is lying haplessly on its side just barely visible in the grass alongside the road, its metal components twisted into uselessness and the rider nowhere to be seen.

Before Jules has even completely stopped her car, I leap out and ran towards the bike.

“Are you okay?!” I yell, hoping for an answer.

I ease my way down the six-foot-steep grass hill, spotting the leather clad rider laying prone on the ground. He’s saying something but I can’t hear it over the beating of my own heart.

“Should I go back and try to find more help?” the woman who drove me here shouts.

“Just a second,” I replied loudly. Bending a knee, I crouch beside the biker. He’s lying on his back with his face turned away.

“Sir, what’s your name?” I say bluntly and clearly while my hands pat his jeans to try and find a wallet or phone. I come up short.

“Ughhhh,” he groans in pain. “Fuuuck. It hurts.”

“Sir, what’s your name?”

He turns his head toward me. I angle my own and squint to try and see the man’s face but it’s shadowed beneath his helmet. He groans again a little more clearly this time.

“Don’t worry, just relax… We’re going to get you help.”

“Nooo,” the biker slurs and touches a hand to my arm. “No cops. No ambulance. No hospital.”

Had he been drinking? I wondered to myself. He wasn’t making any sense.

“Sir, you need help. You’ve just tumbled off your bike, okay? You could be seriously hurt.”

“No. Goddamn. Help.”

“You don’t have any say in this. You’re lucky to be alive.”

I stand back up, but the biker’s leather glove latches firmly around my ankle.

“You call…anybody,” his gravely voice tells me, “I’m…a fucking dead man anyway, sweetheart. You wanna send me back there, huh? You wanna put an innocent man in jail?”

I kick my ankle away from his touch. “Relax. You won’t get in trouble.” I’m not sure if that’s true. If he’s drunk there’s every possibility this guy will end up in jail, but that’s not my problem.

“Don’t,” he orders again.

“Just leave me here. Help me to my bike…”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“You heard me.”

“No way I’m leaving you here,” I reply. “Besides, that pile of metal isn’t going anywhere.”

“What?” the biker hisses roughly. He lifts his head so that his bloodied face becomes illuminated in the moonlight.

I stumble back at who lies at my feet because I know what this means:

New Lucy just died.