It’s a girl for sure. She’s wearing sneakers, a skirt hiked up high enough to show nearly all of one bent leg, and a leather jacket. The exposed leg is half submerged in running gutter water. It looks very white. Can she be dead? Would those men have been laughing if she was? After some of the things he’s seen in the desert （and can never unsee）， Billy knows it’s possible.
He has to get her, and not just because she might die out there if he doesn’t. This part of town is quiet even at noon on a weekday, but eventually someone will come along and spot her. They might not stop, good Samaritans are always in short supply, but they would surely call 911. Thank God it’s late and thank God he didn’t go to bed five minutes sooner. There would have come a knock on his door, cops canvassing the houses on this side of Pearson Street to find out if anyone had seen the girl dumped, and if the knock came at one or two in the morning, he’d have no chance to even put on the Dalton Smith wig, let alone the fake stomach. Hey, one of the cops might say. You look familiar, buddy. I think you should come with us.
Billy doesn’t bother putting on his pants and shoes, just runs up the stairs in his boxers. He goes through the foyer and down the front steps, leaving the door open to bang back and forth in the wind. He’s aware that he’s gotten a pretty good splinter in the ball of one foot, run it in there deep, but more aware of how fucking cold it is. Not cold enough for the rain to turn to sleet, at least not yet, but close. His arms are covered in goosebumps. The part of his big toe that isn’t there aches. If the girl is still alive, she might not stay that way for long.
Billy goes to one knee and picks her up, so cranked with adrenaline that he has no idea if she’s heavy or light. He looks both ways with rain running down his face and bare chest. His boxers are soaked, hanging low on his hips. He sees no one. Thank God. He splashes back to the apartment side of the street, and as he’s carrying her up the walk, she turns her head, makes a guttural sound, and spews a thin ribbon of vomit down his side and one of his legs. It’s shockingly warm, almost like an electric heating pad.
Well, he thinks, she’s alive all right.
He picks up another splinter on the steps, but then he’s inside. He can’t leave the outside door to bang in the wind, so he sets her down in the foyer and pulls it closed. When he turns back to her, the girl’s eyes are half open. He can see a big purplish bruise on her cheek and the side of her nose. Can’t be from the pavement because she didn’t go down on her face. Besides, the bruising is too well established for that.
‘Who’re you?’ the girl slurs. ‘Where—’ Then she vomits again. This time it backwashes down her throat and she starts to choke.
Billy kneels behind her and gets an arm around her midsection. He uses her breasts as a brace and hauls her up in front of him. Now his fucking boxers, wet with rainwater and a little too big to begin with, start sliding down his legs. He gets two fingers in her mouth, hoping to God she won’t bite him. Infected cuts are the last thing he needs. He gets a wad of stuff out, flings it to the floor, then tightens his grip on her midsection. It does the trick. She hurls like a hero, a banner of puke that hits the foyer wall with a splat.
A car, one that would have spelled his doom just three minutes before, is coming. Billy can see its headlights brightening the rain-splattered glass of the front door. He drops to one knee, still holding the girl in front of him. His stupid boxers are now spread between his knees and he actually has time to wonder why he ever gave up Jockeys. Her head is lolling forward, but he thinks the rasping sounds he now hears are snores, not choking. She’s out again.
The headlights brighten, then diminish without slowing. Billy gets to his feet, hauling the girl up with him. He gets an arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders. Her head lolls backward. He shimmies his legs and his shorts fall to his ankles. He steps out of them and kicks them aside. It’s like some nightmarish vaudeville skit.
Her dank hair drips and pendulums back and forth as he sidesaddles down the stairs, trying not to overbalance and fall. Her upturned face is as pale as the moon. There’s another bruise on her forehead, above her left eye.
And Jesus, his feet are killing him. Never mind his half-gone toe, those fucking splinters! He makes it to the foot of the stairs without falling and bumps open the door to his apartment with his butt. She starts to slither out of his grip, her body forming a limp U shape. He raises one leg into the small of her back, shoves her back up, and staggers inside. She starts to slide again. Ignoring the splinters digging into his cold-reddened feet, Billy sprints to the couch. He makes it just in time. She lands with a thump, gives out a fuzzy grunting noise, then resumes her snoring.