Orchids and Stone by Lisa Preston Page A

in the middle of the intersection, still pointing down Eastpark as if willing to make an effort, to pursue, though battered. On each side of the cross street, a crunched car waited at the curb. A blond woman in a green SUV with the driver’s door gaping open pressed something white to her face. A small silver two-door, half its headlights punched out like a boxer with a black eye, sat on Daphne’s right, the remaining hazard lights blinking in surrender.
    “God, is anyone hurt? Seriously hurt?” Daphne called, swiveling in the road, facing the two-door, melting in relief when a young guy waved from the front bumper. His jeans were ripped at the knees and his T-shirt riddled with holes, but Daphne knew she hadn’t shredded his clothing.
    She jogged to the green SUV, calling to the woman. “Are you okay?”
    The blond pulled a handkerchief from her face and looked at bloody smears. “I just dropped my kids off. I’m so glad they weren’t with me.”
    “Oh. Oh, yes. Me, too,” Daphne said, soaked in every kind of guilt, every feeling of human inadequacy.
    The woman’s focus shifted to something behind Daphne, someone. Daphne whirled, almost bumping into the Sonics man.
    “I saw the whole thing,” he said to the SUV driver, pointing an indicting finger at Daphne. “She blew the light. I’m a witness.”
    “Did you see the other car? The dark blue Lincoln?” Daphne asked him as she stepped away from the SUV for a futile peer down Eastpark Avenue. The Lincoln was gone, of course.
    His face became a sneer. “There was no other car.”
    She felt her blood drain and rubbed her temples. “I need a phone. Now. I’m going—”
    He shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere.” And he grabbed at her bare arm.
    She yanked back hard. “Touch me and I will knock your head off,” she told him.
    He stared at her. Behind him, the woman gawked, her gaze covering Daphne as she eyed Daphne’s hair, her dirty hands. Up and down, left and right. Daphne watched the woman ogle until she couldn’t stand it and said, “I’m so sorry about the accident. It was an accident. Do you have a phone?”
    “They said someone already called 911,” she said. “We’re just supposed to wait.”
    “Yes, yes,” Daphne said, wanting to ask again if the woman had a phone. She swirled in the street, feeling drunk. At the far side of the intersection, the guy at the two-door was holding his phone, taking a picture of his bumper. Daphne saw now that his knuckles were cut. Dabs of blood on two joints dribbled down his fingers and he wiped his hand on his shirt before continuing to take pictures.
    “Could I use your phone?” she hollered.
    “What for?”
    “To call the police.”
    “I already called them.”
    “It’s about something else,” Daphne said, waving her hands, shifting her tone between entreaty and urgency.
    Beyond the SUV, just across the wide sidewalk, a convenience store’s propped-open door advertised energy drinks, lottery tickets, and tobacco.
    “I’m just going to use the phone in there,” Daphne said to no one in particular as she pointed, then ran around the car feeling a bit like a kid playing fire drill games in traffic.
    Inside the store, an older man with hair like aged steel stood behind the counter. He pointed to a basic black telephone by his cash register. “I make call already. Is good.”
    Daphne clutched both hands together to plea. “May I use the phone, please?”
    He pointed to it again and she grabbed for the handset, dialing the three numbers. Outside, the man who swore at her stood by the green SUV, watching Daphne, his hands on his hips. She turned again toward the inside of the store. The man at the register was watching a girl at the beer cooler. Signs everywhere promoted lottery tickets. Be an instant winner.
    “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice sounded unstressed but clipped.
    “Hi. I’m calling from an accident on Eastpark that just happened a few