Into the Ditch

I know I should call the police, call the detective who took my statement the other night. Even contacting the young constable who got lost on his way to the police station would be a better idea than my pulling my vehicle to the side of the road, getting out, and climbing into the ditch.

But I must see if this Red Chesterfield is real. I must make sure that this is not some post-traumatic hallucination.

Down into the ditch I go, up to the Red Chesterfield. I reach out to touch it, but then pull my hand back. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.

For a moment I stare at the Red Chesterfield, look at its Davenport outline, conjecture that if this is not the original, it is an exact copy. A second later, I decide there is only one way to determine if this Red Chesterfield is real and not a hallucination.

I sit.