Chapter 6
Slowly, I reach beneath my bed for Russ’s signed Derek Jeter baseball bat and grip it with my free hand. The touch of the weapon steadies me.
Bret stumbles toward the bed, as if he has perfect night vision, and falls face first into my balled-up comforter. What comes out as a muffled “sorry,” sounds like “soirée” in the jumble of bed sheets.
I hear Sheriff Erickson on the line, his voice blaring, “Chris, are you all right? What’s happening?”
“Can you please come over? I’ve got a drunk stranger in my bed.”
* * * *
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 marijuana.