There was nothing like it: gray ribbon of highway unfurling ahead of him,
hills on his right, ocean off to his left - too far to see, but he could
smell the tang of kelp and bite of salt-laden spray.  Three hours on
California One, wailing up the coast, lashing the shroud of despair that
had set in since Jackie had taken her leave.   It was already November but
he still hadn't gotten the taste of her out of his system.  Once the early
rain showers had let up, he'd jumped on the bike and took off, leaving LA
madness behind.

Three AM. Enough before dawn that coal-dark night still held sway.  The
moon was an old, waning crescent dipping into the sea.  A nice bite to the
air; it tore at his hair as he cranked the throttle.  The throb of his
Norton pulsing between his legs, urged more, more.  More juice, more speed.

Mark glanced behind and up ahead. No cops, but that didn't mean one or two
might lie in wait behind one of the hills, or maybe to the left in the
dunes.

Shit.  He didn't care.  He opened it up and pushed to ninety.

Downhill now, dipping toward Pismo Beach.  The highway took a straight
course for a while, at least four miles were visible ahead.

He stepped on it, edged toward ninety-five.

A dark lump at the right side about three miles down caught his eye.  He
eased off the gas and stared.

What was it?  Not very big.  Damn!  Maybe someone had hit a dog.  Shit.
Had to be dead.  He didn't have to stop, did he?

He whizzed on past, glancing over.  The lump filled out, took on features:
  a pale arm stretched into the road, a spill of bright hair, tangled legs.

He pulled up in a scream of rubber and smoke and lifted his helmet.
"God!"  Jumped off the bike and sprinted toward the body.

Small, not a guy.  Was it a kid?  Goddammit, where was his cell phone?  He
patted his jacket until the bulge of its case rested under his hands.  He
drew it out and started punching the numbers before he even reached the
still form.  Thank God his sister had insisted he carry a cell phone with
him at all times.

The phone purred once, twice.  He reached the body.  Small all right, but
not a kid.  A woman lay crumpled there.  He didn't see any blood.  Shouldn'
t there be blood?  No.  He wouldn't be able to see its color in the
starlight.  But there didn't seem to be any dark spots on her clothes or
what he could see of her head.

His CPR certification wasn't current.  What the hell was he supposed to do?
  Survey the scene.  Yeah.  He glanced up and down the highway.  No cars
coming now but he'd have to get her off the road before one did.  He
dropped to his knees by the body and breathed into his phone.  Didn't they
ever answer a 911 call?  He held the phone out.  The battery light flashed
red.

He'd let it run down again.  "Shit!"  He pounded on his knee.

The body stirred.

Ah, God.  What if she was badly hurt?  All he had was his bike.  Okay,
okay.  He wasn't supposed to even touch her until he determined the extent
of her injuries.

She raised up on her elbow, drew her legs together.  "What?" Silvery hair
tumbled in front of her face.

"Don't move!"  At least he knew that much.  "You don't know how badly you'
re hurt."  Well, he didn't know but forget that now.  Take charge.  He
could do this.

She shook her head and coughed.  "Hurt?"  Her legs pushed against the
pavement.  She raised her face.  The tangle of silver hair parted.  "I don'
t think I'm hurt."  She stretched her arms and shifted her legs. "Ow!" Her
hand went down to her leg.  "At least not very bad."  She looked up at him.

Elves.  She was like a goddamn elf.  Tilted, light eyes, thickly lashed.
Silvery hair to her waist.  An ankle-length gown clung to her form but
flared over an undersleeve at the wrists.  Almost medieval.  But a compact
body, everything scaled down.  "What time is it?"  She shook her head and
slumped forward.

"Oh, Lord." Was this for real?  He hadn't smoked any dope today.   "Okay,
elf-lady." He rose to his feet and leaned over her.  "I have to get you
off the road."