Drool spilt from the man’s hanging jaw, indicating just how deep in the nightmare he was.

Confident that the rear door was out of the somnambulist’s reach, Joyce unlocked it and stepped out onto the patio. “Get out of here—now!” she cried. The man’s clothes were ragged. He pawed at the air as one love-starved, one desperate for an embrace. He was, Joyce knew, looking to pull her back into last night’s ugly island cottage, with its telephone screeching to be answered.

The man shambled listlessly to his left, his right. His condition allowed Joyce to guide him on his way with relative ease. She steered him toward the open wooden gate. Pool water dripped from his clothing. Joyce hated the fact that she had to touch him.

Once he began shuffling down the driveway Joyce slammed and bolted the gate.

Her re-entry into the house had all the drama of a teen sneaking in after curfew. She broke from tiptoeing long enough to snap the deadbolt on the back door, then she moved to the living room and peered through the sheers of the large bay window.

The man was staggering like a drunkard down the centre of the street.

He’d managed to shuffle out of Joyce’s view before the terrible squeal of tires, followed immediately by a thud.

Joyce backed away from the window, chilled by the sound of the panicked voices and cries from down the way.

“What’s going on?”

The voice came from behind her. Joyce spun to see Morgan, who was rubbing her eyes with the heel of her left hand. Her tangled hair suggested a restless night.

“An accident,” were the only two words Joyce managed to pronounce before she began to cry.

Morgan moved to her, wrapped her arm around her shoulders, and asked repeatedly what was wrong. When Joyce was unable or unwilling to respond, all at once Morgan knew.

Her arm slipped off Joyce’s quaking frame. “No,” she said.

Joyce looked at her, her eyes desperately assessing what, if anything, Morgan might have pieced together.

The girl’s expression and demeanour were frustratingly blank. They prevented Joyce from any insights at all. Morgan made her way to the breakfast nook with melodramatic slowness. The padded bench huffed when she slumped down upon it. The girl sat like one mesmerized. She lazily traced the table-top’s grain pattern with one finger.

Resignedly, Joyce joined her, studying her from across the narrow nook.

“I want to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly. Morgan? Look at me please. I need to ask you something.”

Morgan kept her head against the crook of her elbow but did respond with “What?”

“Have you been doing something you’re not supposed to?”

Morgan lifted her head at last. “What do you mean?”

“I mean have you been…curious.”