Minus Tide

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“It’s your first dead body, Ann. Don’t worry. You’re not going to get hooked or anything.”

“I wouldn’t say this counts. A severed appendage is hardly a body, Mitch. And no, I don’t care for a cigarette.”

Mitch Young lit one up and dropped the pack back into his shirt pocket. His hands were shaky.

“So I guess you’re already hooked?” Ann said.

“I suppose I am. On cigarettes anyway.” Mitch had found that nicotine calmed his stomach. He’d taken up smoking his first week on duty, after arriving at the scene of a grisly car crash and immediately losing his dinner of chicken fried steak. It was obvious that neither occupant had bothered to buckle up. There was blood-stained windshield glass scattered all over the place. Like thrown wedding rice, he’d thought, except these folks were getting hitched with death. He’d set out flares on the dark road and waited for Sheriff Dawkins. The sheriff, a consummate chain smoker, had tossed him a spare pack and warned him to mind the spreading pool of gasoline.

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