VIII: Mrs. Scurfield

I meant to write about this earlier, but felt a little embarrassed.

I've been getting drunk at the trees a lot lately. Last week I woke to the feeling of a hand shaking me.

"Matthew Wilkinson," a female voice said. "Matthew!"

I looked up and saw the crooked branches against a morning sky. I flinched. "Holy God," I muttered. Old Mrs. Scurfield was standing over me. I sat up straight.

"Alright. Your shoulder is covered in vomit."

I groaned.

I puked.

She smiled.

"Sorry," I said, with my head facing the misery.

"Come on." She pulled me to my feet.

We walked back to the road where my truck and her car sat in the May morning sun. "Mrs. Scurfield," I began.

"It's alright,” she interrupted. "No one's hurt."

We came to my truck. I took off my reeking jacket and threw it in the back. I watched her get in her car and drive away. I turned my truck ignition. The clock shone out its digital numbers.

5:34.

I rubbed my eyes.

What was Mrs. Scurfield doing out at the crooked trees at 5:30am?