Lyle walked along the side of the bluff, singing to himself and occasionally kicking a rock to tumble down below. The bottle swinging carelessly from his hand was about two-thirds empty. He was happily mangling a Beatles song when he caught sight of someone laying near the abandoned storage facility.
He swigged another gulp, then started walking over to get a better look. As he came down the path, the bottle fell from his fingers and rolled down, coming to rest by a hubcap. He stumbled over and dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse. He placed his hands to start doing compressions before realization penetrated his fogged mind. He fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“She’s dead,” he babbled. “She’s dead she’s really dead.”
“Lyle? Is that you?”
“At Mel’s storage. She’s dead. Send somebody, she’s dead she’s really dead,” he kept repeating.