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"Better get those flares out Dale. There are some vehicles heading this way that will be here in the next little while," Vyagar informed him.Dale ran to his trunk and found a canvas bag complete with a lighter and a dozen or so flares. He slung the bag over his shoulder and hit 911 on his cell phone as he ran back along the highway. Dale held the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and reported the accident and his approximate location as he was lighting flares and placing them on the roadway. The 911 operator told him that help would be there as soon as possible and ended the call.Dale ran back to the girl at the side of the road. His heart ached for the young woman whom he guessed to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. He sat down beside her and laid her head in his lap. Dale thought of the difficult time he had dealing with his parents' deaths - and he was already on his own long before that happened. This young slip of a woman still needed her parents. How terrible it. Not very likely. "Oh, you're up." The voice was his mother, Anne. Oh God. The lastthing he needed after an unsuccessful suicide was his mother. He waitedfor the recriminations, as he turned towards the door. "How are you feeling?" the young looking woman at the door askedhim. Young? James stared at his mother; at least she looked and soundedlike her. The woman in her late thirties who looked back at him had anexpression of concern on her face. There was no anger; just anaffection and what seemed a sense of worry. His mother? James never remembered her looking that way. The woman heremembered was older, almost fifty. It was a rare moment when shedidn't criticize him, and the concern that this woman was showing wastotally the antithesis of that scorn. An instant or two went by beforeJames finally realized that she was his mother, but she had gonethrough some radical transformation. She must have had one of thosemakeover shows do a number on her. That would probably explain herchanged.
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