Where We Live and Die Read Free Page B

road is along his ambulance route. It turned out he hadn’t. While all of this was going on, Coop and the rest of his ambulance crew had been down at the river, fishing a suicide out of the half-frozen water near the Columbia-Marietta Bridge.
    My flight home from Missouri was delayed until Monday night due to inclement weather. I didn’t land in Baltimore until nearly midnight and didn’t get home until after 2am Tuesday morning. I didn’t bother to look for damage from the accident or markings on the road. It was dark and foggy outside, and I was focused solely on giving my wife, my son and my dog all a big hug. I didn’t see anything that night, supernatural or otherwise.
    I wonder now, looking back, if I might have seen something then had I been looking for it—and if I had seen something, would I have known what it was?
    The next morning, after I woke up and unpacked and told my wife about my trip, I remembered the accident and decided to walk up to the top of the driveway and survey the damage. Yes, I’m one of those people who slow down to gawk at accidents on the highway. I’ll stand and watch a burning building. I’m fascinated by such things. To be fair, though, I’d like to think that I’m also the type of person who will stop along that highway and offer assistance, or run inside that burning building and pull people out until the firemen arrive. This is what I tell myself, at least.
    I walked up the driveway and was out of breath by the time I reached the top. This happens a lot—more and more these last few years. When I was a kid, I could ride my BMX Mongoose all over York County, pedaling down to Spring Grove to buy comic books at the newsstand, and not get winded. In the Navy, I could swim a mile and not be out of breath. I used to run cross country in high school (the only organized sport I ever played, and I did it just to make my old man happy). But now, at forty-one? Forget about it. I gasp for breath after walking a mile through the woods and vigorous sex sometimes leaves me winded and on the verge of passing out. There are times when I lay there on the bed, wheezing and panting and waiting for the room to stop spinning. I told Cassi she should consider my breathlessness a compliment, but she doesn’t see it that way. It concerned Cassi enough that she made me go to the doctor. I hate doctors. I could cut my arm off in a horrific threshing machine accident and I still wouldn’t go to the doctor. But I went for her. The doctor said there wasn’t anything wrong with me. No heart trouble (at least, not yet). No lung trouble. In plain terms, I was out of fucking shape. I asked him how this could be. He asked me what I did for a living. I told him I sat around in my underwear and made up scary stories all day long. He frowned, as if to say, “Well, there’s your answer.”
    I was never the athletic type. Sure, I can hold my own in a fight (and I am mean enough to win), but I’m not much for playing sports or exercising or things like that. Under orders to get in shape, I went to the one person whose advice I trust in such a situation—Wrath James White, former World Champion kickboxer, UFC trainer and fighter, horror novelist, and one of my best friends. He told me to run every day. He said I should start out running, and when I felt like I couldn’t go on, that instead of stopping, I should walk. Then, after a little bit of walking, I should start running again. Wrath told me to do this every day, and I’d be in shape in no time. I did it once and it almost killed me.
    I’m certain this was Wrath’s idea of a practical joke.
    Anyway, I stood at the top of the driveway and looked around while I caught my breath. It was easy to tell what had happened. The car had been coming north and heading southwest when, for whatever reason, the driver lost control. It had swerved up the embankment on the far side of the road, missing our mailbox by inches. Then it had flipped over onto its roof, slid