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recall when. My fingers lost the root. I clawed the bottom, flailing arms and legs pushing me down as the water carried me up. Lungs screamed, panic choked my chest, I fought to stay underwater. My face broke through with a sob intake of air.
    “Look who’s alive.”
    “I wouldn’t call that live yet.”
    No forgiving hangover blankness here, I knew the facts in a heartbeat—Everclear, the Flintstones cup, Marilyn Monroe. It took a second to come up with why, then I saw my baby on the roof.
    Shit. I’d failed.
    I even knew exactly where I was. Although I hadn’t slept here in years, I knew Sam Callahan’s bed without opening my eyes.
    A male voice said, “I’ve got pipe to fix.”
    “You spend more time on her plumbing than mine.” Her would be me.
    “She pays and you don’t.”
    I slit my eyes open a crack and saw Hank Elkrunner and Lydia Callahan kissing each other good-bye over by the door. Her hand crept up his back into his long Blackfoot hair. His hand slid to the base of her spine.
    “Be home tonight,” Lydia ordered.
    Hank gave her a love spank. “Doubt it. Lauren Bacall is set to pop.”
    I closed my eyes. Watching other people’s affection makes me sad. After he left, Lydia lit a cigarette, then came to the bed and touched my forehead. “Hank says you’re alive,” she said.
    “He’s too good for you.”
    Lydia’s hand twitched, like it would when you think you’re talking to a person in a coma and the person talks back. “Hank’s the best.”
    “You don’t deserve him.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    Lydia’d been a mess when she met Hank Elkrunner. Now she had that reformed-drunk-someone-good-loves-me smugness that turns me catty. Hell, I could stop drinking if someone good loved me.
    Lydia sat in an easy chair next to the bed and opened a newspaper. Her drug of choice had gone from gin to current events. “How’s your head?”
    “There’s a spike driven through my third eye.”
    “I shouldn’t wonder. Did you kill the whole fifth?”
    I didn’t answer. My head hurt, my nose hurt, my crotch hurt, all the muscles in my back hurt—my advice is never botch a suicide.
    The paper rustled as Lydia turned a page. “This guy John Ehrlichman is frightening. He reminds me of your husband. The others are all lying snakes, but Ehrlichman’s a lying barracuda.”
    I had no idea what she was talking about. “Where’s Auburn?”
    “He’s home. Delilah Talbot moved in to take care of him.”
    That brought up a dozen questions, none of which I had the energy to ask. Lydia talked as she read the paper.
    “Doc Petrov pumped your stomach, but he said it was too late to do much good. You went into respiratory arrest, then your kidneys kind of crumpled and they stuck in a catheter. You should have seen yourself, Maurey. So many tubes running in and out you looked like a chemistry experiment.”
    “How long?”
    “Two days here and three in intensive care. When Hank brought you off the mountain you were choking on vomit and all that blood was gushing out your nose, I thought we’d lost you.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    ***
    Auburn and I are on top of Teton Pass in the early spring and I park the Bronco to watch a fantastically lit sunrise. Beams bend around Jackson Peak, snow on the Sleeping Indian glows with a fire of its own. I step out with my bottle to be closer to the beauty and breathe a prayer of thanks, but I forget to set the emergency brake and the Bronco, with Auburn in his car seat, rolls down the pass. I run—run harder and harder, reach for the back bumper, but the Bronco is inches beyond my fingertips. Auburn laughs, trusting me. I dive and catch the trailer hitch but still cannot stop the rolling as the car’s momentum drags me down the highway. At the cliff the front wheels go over, wrenching the hitch from my hands, and I’m left flat with my head over the edge to watch the car flip front over back, over and over down the mountain. Auburn’s cries fill the canyon until the final