No, cold. I shivered, and an awful shudder of pain went through me. It seemed to originate in my head. Oh, no. I was going to barf. I rolled over and threw up. On the ground. What was I doing on the ground? And why did I feel like somebody just beat the stuffing out of me? A new wave of pain, followed by its lovely twin, nausea, seized me, and I reached out, trying to grip the ground. To get hold of anything solid. Wood. That’s what I felt under my clammy palms. Finished wood. A deck. It hurt to open my eyes much more than a slit, but I forced myself to survey my surroundings. I recognized those rhododendrons flowering above me. And the wooden benches Blythe and I had sat on. Why was I not surprised that I’d eventually ended up lying in this weird little spot, helpless and in pain? “Brenna!” Riggins cried. Then he called over his shoulder, “Over here! She’s here! He hurried over to me as he barked a bunch of police-ese into his radio. I opened my mouth to warn him about the throw-up, but it was too late.
