by Goode, A. J.
One thing he knew for sure: no full-time fire department was going to hire him if they knew he was seeing imaginary women on rainy country roads at three in the morning.
He had to have imagined her. He so wiped out that he was hallucinating. That was the only possible explanation. It certainly made more sense than some crazy lady running around in a white dress in the middle of the night and then disappearing without a trace. It made more sense, but it wasn't comforting to realize that he had almost wrecked his truck over a fatigue-induced hallucination.
Get a grip, Jackson. Go home, get some rest, and don't ever mention this to anyone.
Right. He put the truck in gear, turned it around, and cranked up the volume just as Sweet Home Alabama started. It was enough to get him home, where he pulled into his attached garage and stumbled toward the door to his home. He knew he should hang his wet gear and make a few phone calls to let people know he was going to be late for work, but he just didn't care.
He stepped out of his boots on his way through the door and started shucking wet clothes on his way to the bedroom. All thoughts of taking a shower were gone, replaced by visions of a soft pillow and a comfortable bed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice was trying to remind him that he stunk, and that his bedding was going to stink, too; he firmly told the annoying little voice to shut the hell up and collapsed face-down on top of the quilted comforter.
Sure was a pretty hallucination, he thought, and then he was out.
