The Girl Who Cried Wolf.

P

FRIEND

"We appreciate your cooperation," the blond officer is saying, "and we apologise for your loss. We'll keep in touch, and you can feel free to contact us if you have information you'd like to share."

She barely feels herself nod, but pushes to her feet and dawdles out of the station.

She catches a glimpse of her physical state in a mirror at the door.

Her clothes are still torn and soaked in bloody half-handprints, and messy splotches.

She grits her teeth and forces her feet down the stairs. She's not going to break down here.

Before she can take a proper look at the growing crowd at the bottom of the stairs, flashes of light blind her for a second, and she raises her hands to protect her eyes.

"Do you know what caused your dau-"

"Can you explain to us why you think he picked he-"

"Were you aware your daughter wa-"

"When was the last time you talked to her? Did she say anything-"

"Please," she hears, rather than sees, her dead friend's mother plead with the press, "let me out."

The small woman is deep in a circle of preying journalists who get to report nothing but the number of accidents that happen once every two months in their quiet town.

Information like this is a feast.

"Do you have nothing to say-"

Before she can change her mind, Friend rushes into the tight crowd, curls her fingers around the sobbing woman's wrist, and jerks her out.

They run for the woman's car, journalists hasty on their trail, and zoom away the second the engine starts.

A couple of journalists throw their shoes at the car, angry and red in the face at the thought of losing their precious meal.

They quietly swear to hunt the woman down.

Friend and the dark-haired women are tensed and panicked, their pants filling the silence.

Then suddenly, the woman breaks down.

She folds in on herself and buries her makeup-free face in her hands.

The usual kempt updo and impeccable suit are missing.

She's a mother grieving, a mother in pain.

She's a woman who's no longer a mother.

Her eyes are sunken and pale, her lips are dry, and her hair is greasy.

Nothing matters in the end.

Friend clutches the steering wheel tighter as the woman taps her fist to her chest.

"It's all my fault. It's my fault. And- And I can't go back. But I have to. My baby, my baby, my child." She smacks her chest harder, tears streaming down her face like an overflowing dam. "Please, let me go back. I need my child...please."

Her sobs continue to rack her fragile frame, but Friend can't think of anything to appease the woman.

She may have lost a distant friend, but this woman lost another version of herself.

"My child." The woman mourns, her fists in her hair. "My child. Someone, please, my child."

It takes a couple more minutes to get to the woman's home, and Friend parks the car in the yard, leaving the grieving mother in it.