Sheriff Erickson arrives ten minutes later. He looks dapper even in his wet Oxford raincoat and frizzy hair. I had managed to half-carry Bret into the living room where he sits propped up in one of my wing chairs by the window like a marionette doll. His head sloped to the side, eyes closed, he snores.
The air in my house is thick with the smell of m*******a.
Sheriff Erickson examines the dazed youth. And it is the first time under the lamplight that I notice two dimples etched deep on either side of the sheriff’s cheeks. I feel lightheaded and my face feels flushed.
He waves a veiny hand at Bret Hicks. “This is your drunk stranger?” He winks at me.
I pull my bathrobe closed, feeling as if I’ve exposed enough to the sheriff tonight. I feel embarrassed that I called him. “That didn’t co
