Officer Petty stands beside the bed asking me what happened. She’s tall, pretty, vaguely familiar. I give her the only answer I’m capable of. “I don’t remember.”
She nods curtly. “I understand and I’m sorry to bother you with this ma’am. We just want to get the incident report filed so the insurance companies can begin their work.”
“You were five blocks from home,” Officer Petty continues, looking at her notes. “The man, a Mr. Cole, said he didn’t see you. That he was,” she rifles back several pages, “backing out of the driveway to get some salad dressing for his wife at the nearby QFC, when he hit something. That would be you, ma’am.”
“At which point in the interview he became too emotional to continue. But—” she looks up from her notes, as Jack enters the room.