Page 23 of Story of My Life
Goose squawked his annoyance.
“Shut up, Goose,” I told the bird.
He fanned his wing in an almost human shrug.
“Will someone please explain what just happened?” the driver said, starting to pace as she clutched a hand to her bloody forehead.
I walked her backward until she was leaning against the hood of my truck. “Stay.”
The redhead was still sitting stock still, hands up, face scrunched up, refusing to look down, when I opened her door.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I muttered as I picked up the fish.
Its scales were slippery, and it almost got away from me, but I got a better grip an inch before it whapped her in her movie-star-sized sunglasses.
She pursed her lips together and muffled some kind of internal scream.
I tossed the fish into the grass off the shoulder of the road, where it landed with a wet thud.
Goose hopped from the trunk to the ground and swaggered John Wayne–style toward his lunch.
“Can you walk or you wanna sit there screaming?” I asked the redhead.
“I think I’ll whimper for another minute if that’s cool.”
Women. Specifically of the New York variety.
I headed back to the wounded driver, who had shoved her sunglasses up over the wound into her dusty, blood-soaked hair. Wide brown eyes turned to me. “Is that a…?”
“Bald eagle,” I filled in.
“I was attacked by a bald eagle,” she said almost dreamily. Suddenly she stomped her foot and squinted up at the cloudless sky. “Why does the universe hate me?”
The question felt more rhetorical than anything, so I didn’t bother responding to it.
“Goose didn’t attack you. You got in his way right before you plowed into the welcome sign.” Technically, the damn bird had dipped too low with his lunch and smacked her in the head with the fish and probably a talon. But she was inconveniencing me, so I wasn’t about to let her off the hook.
She looked like I’d just told her she ran over a litter of puppies. “Oh my God. Are you kidding me? Is he going to die?”
“No.” I took her by the less bloody hand and led her to the back of my truck, where I lowered the tailgate. When she just stared, I plopped her down on it. “Don’t move.”
She craned her head toward the eagle. “But is he okay? Does he need some kind of bald eagle medical attention?”
“He’s fine,” I snapped. I stomped around to the rear passenger door and dug out the first aid kit from the back seat.
“Hold still,” I ordered, popping open the well-used metal box next to her.
“Are you sure Zoey’s okay?” she asked, squirming around to look for her friend.
I stepped between her open legs, captured her chin, and turned her to look at me. “If Zoey’s the one with the fish in her lap, she seems more emotionally scarred than physically. Now hold still.”
The cut wasn’t deep, but like all head wounds, it was bleeding dramatically.
“She’s terrified of fish and birds. This is like a horror movie made just for her.” She tried to turn again. “Zoey? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” came the weak reply. “Just watching my personal nightmare play out six feet from me.”
“Trouble, if you don’t hold still, you’re gonna get an alcohol wipe in the eye,” I warned.
