Harold forced his eyes open. Blood filled his mouth. He tried spitting it out, but in vain. His limbs were numb and his head wet.
“Lydia… Where’s Lydia?” his thoughts did not produce any sound or result in an answer. The moon was silent.
With all his might, Jim was clenching the steering wheel, his hands trembling. His senses were dull, but his thoughts were clear. Despite the unfinished bottle of bourbon he left at Johnsons’.
“Not my fault, it’s not my fault,” echoed in his ears. But even louder were the old couple’s screams against the now crimson bonnet of his silver Jaguar. The moon was silent still.