ROSE MARCHAND PRESSED the remote button on the arm of her chair, and the door to the deck swung slowly open. She stared up at the bluing cloud-free sky. After a night of light rain it was a perfect morning. The world washed clean.
She pushed on the chair’s guide wheels and propelled herself forward, onto the low, narrow deck. Behind her the door closed with a small squeak. Why did it squeak on closing but not on opening? She’d get Roy to oil it. She rolled over to the ramp and let herself glide down. Though the day should warm nicely, now at 6:00 am it was cool.
She gripped the wheels and started her roll along the circular asphalt drive. Another thrust, another, another, and she was rolling faster than most people jog. Great to be alive.
The air past her face felt soft, and now she could see the sun rising beyond the tall, straight firs and the angled arbutus trees. Their home and the Gallery backed to the ocean. In front, a long avenue led from the circle drive to the road. The circle served as her track, about thirty metres in diameter. Artemus had designed it well.
She pushed hard, past the path to Tam’s cabin, eyes on asphalt ahead. But her peripheral vision noted a dark bundle to her left. She sped up, she needed to get her heart rate higher. Back to the house, second circle. Arm and shoulder muscles now fully awake. Around again. She slowed a little, glancing ahead to spot the bundle.
There, on the grass. A dump of clothes. Or a person? Flat on his face, dirty jeans, faded shirt, no cap. Damn! She had to break her rhythm, deal with whoever lay there, some drunk? Here? Drunks didn’t casually pass out on the Gallery grounds. She guided her chair toward the person’s workboots. “Hey! You!”
No movement. She rolled by him and leaned toward his head. Oh dear god! “Roy! Roy!”
She rolled her left wheel against his side. No response. Oh god, was he dead? She reached down to check for breathing. None obvious. Damn it to hell, she thought. And then she thought, Call the police. At last she thought, Poor Roy.
It would not be a first-rate day.