On the road from Queets, Michele and I stopped to assist a woman who’d skidded her car into a ditch. Neither of us is much accustomed to offering roadside assistance so the stop had an adventurous flair. The girl who’d had the accident was large and encased in a Barbie-pink sweatshirt that featured a picture of the Virgin Mary; she stayed on her cell phone the whole time we were there, talking loudly and hysterically to several family members who seemed reluctant to come pick her up. We gave her some Tylenol for a slight burn on her hand, but after about fifteen minutes the adventurous feeling wore off and we moved on, feeling awkward. She barely noticed our departure.
“I hope she’ll be okay,” I said. “She kept pressing her hand against the asphalt to cool it off.”
“Seriously?” Michele said. “Yuck.”
“Yeah. I hope it doesn’t get infected or something. But even if she loses the use of one hand, it probably won’t affect her driving at all.”
“Too soon,” Michele said.