black chevrolet

The credits for 3:10 TO YUMA fade into silence, then the file stops and the screen glares white at me, filling the room with ghostly light.  It's about 11:20.

As if in echo from the last shootout, a deep male voice cries out help me from somewhere in the direction of the dumpsters.  Or maybe across the alley.  Or maybe from the freeway.  Or maybe...fragments of shouting float across the carport roof.  Man, I can't tell how far away that is.  Should I call the cops?

Should I?

I look out the window.  I see the motion sensor light over on the carport blink on.  There is silence.  What would I say if I did call 911?

.....

Ten minutes later sirens wail distantly from the street across the drain canal.

Yeah, Friday night in a small California town too close to the city for anyone's comfort.