I didn't want to take the time to pull over and check on her, and I wouldn't have known what to do if I had, so I drove like a bat out of hell. By the time I pulled up to the emergency entrance and called to the two nurses standing outside smoking, I was sure the poor Were was dead.

She wasn't, judging from the activity that surrounded her in the next couple of minutes. Our parish hospital is a little one, of course, and it doesn't have the facilities that a city hospital can boast. We counted ourselves lucky to have a hospital at all. That night, they saved the Were's life.

The doctor, a thin woman with graying spiked hair and huge black-rimmed glasses, asked me a few pointed questions that I couldn't answer, though I'd been working on my basic story all the way to the hospital. After finding me clueless, the doctor made it clear I was to get the hell out of the way and let her team work. So I sat in a chair in the hall, and waited, and worked on my story some more.

There was no way I could be useful here, and the glaring fluorescent lights and the gleaming linoleum made a harsh, unfriendly environment. I tried to read a magazine, and tossed it on the table after a couple of minutes. For the seventh or eighth time, I thought of skipping out. But there was a woman stationed at the night reception desk, and she was keeping a close eye on me. After a few more minutes, I decided to visit the women's room to wash the blood off my hands. While I was in there, I took a few swipes at my coat with a wet paper towel, which was largely a wasted effort.

When I emerged from the women's room, there were two cops waiting for me. They were big men, both of them. They rustled with their synthetic padded jackets, and they creaked with the leather of their belts and equipment. I couldn't imagine them sneaking up on anyone.

The taller man was the older. His steel gray hair was clipped close to his scalp. His face was carved with a few deep wrinkles, like ravines. His gut overhung his belt. His partner was a younger man, maybe thirty, with light brown hair and light brown eyes and light brown skin—a curiously monochromatic guy. I gave them a quick but comprehensive scan with all my senses.

I could tell the two were both prepared to find out I'd had a hand in the injuries of the girl I'd brought in, or that I at least knew more than I was saying.

Of course, they were partially right.

"Miss Stackhouse? You brought in the young woman Dr. Skinner is treating?" the younger man said gently.

"Maria-Star," I said. "Cooper."

"Tell us how you came to do that," the older cop said.

It was definitely an order, though his tone was moderate. Neither man knew me or knew of me, I "heard." Good.

I took a deep breath and dove into the waters of mendacity. "I was driving home from work," I said. "I work at Merlotte's Bar—you know where that is?"

They both nodded. Of course, police would know the location of every bar in the parish.

"I saw a body lying by the side of the road, on the gravel of the shoulder," I said carefully, thinking ahead so I wouldn't say something I couldn't take back. "So I stopped. There wasn't anyone else in sight. When I found out she was still alive, I knew I had to get to help. It took me a long time to get her into the car by myself." I was trying to account for the passage of time since I'd left work and the gravel from Bill's driveway that I knew would be in her skin. I couldn't gauge how much care I needed to tell in putting my story together, but more care was better than less.

"Did you notice any skid marks on the road?" The light brown policeman couldn't go long without asking a question.

"No, I didn't notice. They may have been there. I was just—after I saw her, all I thought about was her."

"So?" the older man prompted.

"I could tell she was hurt real bad, so I got her here as fast as I could." I shrugged. End of my story.

"You didn't think about calling an ambulance?"

"I don't have a cell phone."

"Woman who comes home from work that late, by herself, really ought to have a cell phone, ma'am."

I opened my mouth to tell him that if he felt like paying the bill, I'd be glad to have one, when I restrained myself. Yes, it would be handy to have a cell phone, but I could barely afford my regular phone. My only extravagance was cable TV, and I justified that by telling myself it was my only recreational spending. "I hear you," I said briefly.

"And your full name is?" This from the younger man. I looked up, met his eyes.

"Sookie Stackhouse," I said. He'd been thinking I seemed kind of shy and sweet.

"You the sister of the man who's missing?" The gray-haired man bent down to look in my face.

"Yes, sir." I looked down at my toes again.

"You're sure having a streak of bad luck, Miss Stackhouse."

"Tell me about it," I said, my voice shaking with sincerity.

"Have you ever seen this woman, the woman you brought in, before tonight?" The older officer was scribbling in a little notepad he'd produced from a pocket. His name was Curlew, the little pin on his pocket said.

I shook my head.

"You think your brother might have known her?"

I looked up, startled. I met the eyes of the brown man again. His name was Stans. "How the heck would I know?" I asked. I knew in the next second that he'd just wanted me to look up again. He didn't know what to make of me. The monochromatic Stans thought I was pretty and seemed like a good little Samaritan. On the other hand, my job was one educated nice girls didn't often take, and my brother was well known as a brawler, though many of the patrol officers liked him.

"How is she doing?" I asked.

They both glanced at the door behind which the struggle to save the young woman went on.

"She's still alive," Stans said.

"Poor thing," I said. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I began fumbling in my pockets for a tissue.

"Did she say anything to you, Miss Stackhouse?"

I had to think about that. "Yes," I said. "She did." The truth was safe, in this instance.

They both brightened at the news.

"She told me her name. She said her legs hurt worst, when I asked her," I said. "And she said that the car had hit her, but not run her over."

The two men looked at each other.

"Did she describe the car?" Stans asked.

It was incredibly tempting to describe the witches' car. But I mistrusted the glee that bubbled up inside me at the idea. And I was glad I had, the next second, when I realized that the trace evidence they'd get off the car would be wolf fur. Good thinking, Sook.

"No, she didn't," I said, trying to look as though I'd been groping through my memory. "She didn't really talk much after that, just moaning. It was awful." And the upholstery on my backseat was probably ruined, too. I immediately wished I hadn't thought of something so selfish.

"And you didn't see any other cars, trucks, any other vehicles on your way to your house from the bar, or even when you were coming back to town?"

That was a slightly different question. "Not on my road," I said hesitantly. "I probably saw a few cars when I got closer to Bon Temps and went through town. And of course I saw more between Bon Temps and Clarice. But I don't recall any in particular."

"Can you take us to the spot where you picked her up? The exact place?"

"I doubt it. There wasn't anything to mark it besides her," I said. My coherence level was falling by the minute. "No big tree, or road, or mile marker. Maybe tomorrow? In the daytime?"

Stans patted me on the shoulder. "I know you're shook up, miss," he said consolingly. "You done the best you could for this girl. Now we gotta leave it up to the doctors and the Lord."

I nodded emphatically, because I certainly agreed. The older Curlew still looked at me a little skeptically, but he thanked me as a matter of form, and they strode out of the hospital into the blackness. I stepped back a little, though I remained looking out into the parking lot. In a second or two, they reached my car and shone their big flashlights through the windows, checking out the interior. I keep the inside of my car spanky-clean, so they wouldn't see a thing but bloodstains in the backseat. I noticed that they checked out the front grille, too, and I didn't blame them one little bit.