We were out on County T, which is called Trunk Road, and there was a Citgo up about two miles. The thought to flag someone down seemed mellow dramatic, overkill, especially when I saw the lights for the gas station. Help was in sight.

"I need your phone," I said, frozen from the walk.

The teenage boy behind the counter had long, frizzy love hair, cut carefully around the ears to offer up his gold stick earring. "Pay phone is by the Pepsi display."

"I don't have the change," I said. "This is an emergency."

I wanted to say, turn off the radio, stop trying to fix your price gun, and help me. But I didn't have to, I didn't have to say any more, and the kid was pretty resourceful. He called the Sheriff to check on Alice, called a tow truck. When his neighbor came in for a newspaper and lottery tickets, he organized my drive back to the used car lot.

The Sheriff was already there when I arrived back. He didn't have his roof flashers on, just headlights. Alice was sitting in his passenger seat. The Sheriff, a big-boned man, was bent over and sticking his head into the police cruiser. His hand was on her shoulder.

As I got closer, I could see Alice putting her fingers into her mouth. She was wrapped in a blanket. The Sheriff pulled her hand from her mouth, and pressed it over the dash vent. He closed the door and stood up when I reached him. I had startled him. I said who I was.

"Ambulance is coming," he said. "Be here in five minutes."

I tapped on the window, but Alice was too focused on her hands. The door was locked.

"She needs all the warmth she can get," the Sheriff said.

So I watched her, as if on another planet, as if she were deaf and blind — a stranger, waiting for rescue.

I learned a few things from the Sheriff, as I stood with him in the cold. He told me about how the body knows how to prioritize. In its own spooky way it knows when it no longer needs fingers or toes — so the blood stops flowing to them and turns its focus to the heart. The blood shuts off, he said, bypasses the extremities, blood vessels constrict, and everything shuts off like a dam.

And trauma, trauma is when worry explodes. Her stress and fear had nowhere to go that night. Certainly nothing was helped by the frostbite. She went into labor way too damn early, and our baby, Evan, did not make it.

Derrick mentions a second time that he needs to use the bathroom. I set my drink down and tie his shoes. It is, as expected, a long grueling process to get him up and over to the toilet. I feel the strain on my own back, even with the alcohol.

"Well I spose," he says as he finishes, and begins washing his hands. "I do suppose." This means he's ready to leave. Ready for home.

The door finally rings, followed by a quick knock, and just like that, Alice is back in the house. "Oh," she says, surprised to see Derrick. Her hair is different, it is darker and in bangs, the back is longer. She stands playfully erect, as if she won't move another inch until introductions are made.

"This is Alice." I say. "Derrick here messed up his back."

I've already lost her, she is looking at the walls.

"Derrick's doing some painting for me."

"I see that John. Very nice. Even the cupboards," she says, and pulls her hand from her pocket to smooth over them.

Derrick moves slowly across the kitchen, Alice and I both watch his stagger. "You need help sitting down?" I ask.

"It's better if I stand," he says.

"We'll get going soon," I say. "I just.well ah..." I mutter something about the canning jars and head for the basement. I'm surprised to hear Alice following me down the stairs. Not in the mood for small talk with Derrick I guess.

"I thought you had taken everything," I say, playfully enough.

"Most of it," she says, softly.

I pull the string for the light, then another. There is a box that says, garden, written in black marker, others that read: winter, misc., electrical, and bird cage.

"Well John's back to drinking during the day I see."