Welcome to Castle Cove

Do something

Do something

Someone is getting hurt, maybe r***d or mugged down there. I’m not going to sit in my apartment and pretend it isn’t happening.

I grab my coat off the rack and have the door open when I hesitate. On second thought, I snatch the mace from my purse and put it in the same pocket as my phone.

I’m not sure it will be helpful for whatever I’m going into, but it’s better than nothing.

A moment later I’m down the stairs, out of my building, and rushing down the sidewalk toward the sound. It’s coming from somewhere left of my apartment, toward the First Night Theatre.

I’m only half a block from my apartment when I notice movement in the window across the street. An onlooker pulls her curtain closed. What is wrong with people? Would it kill them to get out here and make sure someone isn’t being murdered?

A second observer looks out the top window and our eyes meet. He has black eyes and hair and a deathly pale complexion. His spine is hunched.

He shakes his head. Shakes it. As if warning me not to go any farther.

People. Forget them. I’m not looking for a medal here, but there is common decency, you know?

I fall into a jog, trying to reach the woman more quickly. I keep scanning the darkness for any movement.

Another yelp catches my attention. It’s close. Very close. I freeze on the sidewalk between a donut shop and a used bookstore where I’ve taken my coffee once or twice.

Between the two lies a shadowed alleyway. I peer into the relentless dark, my heart thumping in my throat. There’s a woman in the alley, her back against the stone wall. Even in the poor lighting I can see the blood splashed across her face, hands, and clothes. Her body trembles.

I’m running into the alley before I realize what I’m doing.

I kneel in front of her, hands out, searching her body for a wound, something I can compress.

There’s blood. So much blood.

I’m poking at her clothes as gently as possible trying to figure out where the wound is. Wounds, I correct. There has to be more than one with all this blood.

She coughs, spraying blood into my face. I suppress momentary panic.

She better not have any weird diseases, one part of my brain says. The germaphobe part. Shut up, she’s clearly dying! And it’s not like she did it on purpose, shouts the more compassionate part.

But I can taste the blood on my lips. I push the panic away and try to focus on the problem at hand.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask.

She mumbles something, but I can’t make it out.

Choice 10

Lean closer and hear what she says

She needs help. Call 911