LITMIR.BIZ

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From the bathroom, the most obvious place to find first-aid supplies, another door connected to the bedroom.

      Sure enough, under the sink, he found a blue canvas zipper bag with First Aid emblazoned in white on the canvas. He grabbed it and hurried back to the woman. In his experienced hands, it took only seconds to apply a little antibacterial cream and a butterfly to close the wound, covered by a Band-Aid. He reapplied the ice pack.

      The next immediate order of business was getting her to an emergency room for a head CT; the loss of consciousness after a blow to the head could mean trouble. The longer she stayed unconscious, the more it concerned him, but he had moved fast—she hadn’t been out more than a couple of minutes so far. He saw a purse on the kitchen counter and went to rifle through it for a phone, car keys, ID, anything. He unceremoniously dumped the contents and was bent over the counter, sifting through the loose items, when a shriek rent the air. His head came up sharply and he whacked it on the cupboards that hung over the counter. “Ah!” he yelled, grabbing the back of his head. He pinched his eyes closed hard, trying to get a grip through blinding pain.

      But she continued to scream.

      He turned toward her. She was scooting away from him on the leather couch, screaming her head off, her ice packs spilled to the floor.

      “Shut up!” he ordered. She stopped abruptly, her hand covering her mouth. “We’re both going to have brain damage if you don’t stop doing that!”

      “Get out of here!” she commanded. “I’ll call the police!”

      He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Great idea. Where’s the phone?” He lifted a cell phone from the things on the counter. “This one has no signal.”

      “What are you doing here? Why are you in my house? In my purse?”

      He walked toward her, her purse hanging in his hand. “I saw you hit your head. I brought you inside and put ice and a bandage on the wound, but now we have to—”

      “You hit me in the head?” she screeched, digging at the sofa with her heels to scoot away again.

      “I didn’t hit you—apparently I startled you when I came out of the forest and you jumped. You hit the back of your head on the deck railing and one of your pots fell on your head. I think you got the cut on your forehead when you hit the deck on the way down. Now where’s the phone?”

      “Oh God,” she said, her fingers going to the bandage, touching it carefully. “The phone’s going to be installed tomorrow. Along with my satellite dish. So I can have Internet and watch movies.”

      “That isn’t going to help much. Listen, it’s a small cut. Head wounds bleed a lot. I doubt it’ll even leave a scar. But losing consciousness is—”

      “I’ll give you money if you just won’t hurt me.”

      “I bandaged your head, for God’s sake! I’m not going to hurt you and I don’t want money!” He lifted the purse in his hand. “I was looking for your car keys—you need a CAT scan. Maybe a couple of stitches.”

      “Why?” she asked, her voice quivering.

      He sighed. “Because you lost consciousness—not a good sign. Now, where are your keys?”

      “Why?” she asked again.

      “I’m going to drive you to the emergency room so you can get your head examined!”

      “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll drive myself. You can just go now. Right now.”

      He took a couple of steps toward her. He crouched so he wouldn’t be looking down at her, but didn’t get too close because he wasn’t sure of her. She appeared to be a bit unstable. Or maybe scared of him. He tried to put himself in her position—she woke up with blood on her shirt, a wild man plowing through her purse. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.

      She looked at him doubtfully. “Erin,” she finally said.

      “Well, Erin, it isn’t a good idea for you to drive yourself. If you have a serious or even semiserious head injury, you could lose consciousness again, get dizzy or disoriented, get sick, suffer blurred vision, any number of things. Now, try not to be nervous—I’ll take you to the E.R. Once I get you there, you can call a friend or family member. I’ll have someone pick me up.”

      “And you think it is a good idea for me to get in a car with some homeless guy?”

      He stood up. “I’m not homeless! I was hiking through the woods!”

      “Well, then, you’ve been hiking a long time. Because you look like you’ve been living in the woods!”

      He crouched again, to get on her level. “Number one—you have to hold the ice packs I made on the front and back of your head. I don’t see how you can do that while you drive. Number two, it’s too risky for you to drive yourself, as I have very patiently explained. And number three, stop being so goddamn prissy and get in the car with a smelly hiker, because your brain could be swelling as we speak and you could be hopelessly disabled for the rest of your pigheaded life! Now, where are the fucking keys?”

      She looked over her shoulder. There was a hook by the door; her keys dangled from it. “How do you know that stuff? About brain swelling?”

      “I was an EMT in college—a long time ago,” he said, which was the truth. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t just tell her he was a physician. Maybe because he didn’t look like one at the moment. As she had pointed out, he looked like a homeless guy. But there was also the fact that his area of expertise was a long way from the head—and he didn’t feel like getting into that. She was already spooked. Being spooked didn’t stop her from being bossy and bitchy, however. His head hurt, too. And he was fast losing patience with this patient. “Now, let’s gather up your ice and little towels and hit the road.”

      “If you turn out to be some kind of homicidal maniac, you’re going to have one pissed-off ghost on your hands,” she threatened as he stooped to gather her ice off the floor. When she stood up, she wobbled slightly. “Whoa.”

      He was beside her instantly, arm around her waist, steadying her. “You took a mean knock on the head, kid. This is why you’re not driving.”

      He walked her outside, grabbing the keys and slamming the door on the way out. That was the first time he realized that the front of the house faced the road. He had to lift her into the front seat and help her arrange the ice in the dish towels so she could put them against her lumps. He noticed that she wrinkled her nose; okay, so it was obvious—he might’ve generated a little body odor.

      “I need my purse,” she said. “My insurance cards and ID.”

      “I’ll get it,” he said. “I have to close the doors to the deck anyway.” But he took the car keys with him, for safety reasons. He scraped things off the counter and back into her purse, returned to the car and put the purse in her lap. Then he got in and started driving. “You might have to give me some directions.…I’m not from around here.”

      She groaned and dropped her head back. “I’m not from around here, either.”

      “Never mind, I can fake it,” he said. “I can find Highway 36 from Virgin River. What are you doing here, if you’re not from around here?”

      “Taking a break from work and trying to enjoy solitude,” she answered, exasperation in her voice. “Then Charles Manson came through the trees, carrying a three-foot-long knife, and startled me. So much for peace and quiet.”

      “Come on—I let my beard grow, that’s all. I’m on vacation and didn’t feel like shaving, so sue me.”

      “As it happens, I could. I’ve been known to sue people on occasion.”

      He laughed. “I should’ve known. A lawyer. And by the way, I was carrying the machete for cutting away the brush so I could get through the woods when there’s

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