by Carrie Jones
“Who did this to you?” I whisper.
The dog snuffs out a breath of hot air almost like he’s answering. He seems hurt. Really hurt. Anxiety starts to take over, hyping me up like I’ve had eight cups of espresso. I rub my head. Think, Zara. Think. I sink my hands into his fur.
The answer comes.
“I’ll call my grandmother,” I tell him. “Betty will know what to do. She’s really practical. You’d like her.”
I punch in the numbers to her cell, which I’m not supposed to do. I’m supposed to call Josie. But this is really important, and the amazing thing is, she actually picks up.
“Gram, there’s a dog here. He’s hurt. Someone shot him with an arrow. I called the vet but it’s not going through. And I can’t find Nick but his MINI is here. You’ve got to come home,” I rush out.
“Zara, slow down, honey,” her voice comes through the phone all steady. “Tell me that again.”
I tell her again. As I speak the dog snuggles his sweet doggy head on my lap. He shudders. Oh God.
“He’s shuddering,” I tell her.
His breath speeds up to something fast and shallow. His eyes turn up to gaze into mine, trusting. He trusts me to save him. For a second I blink back to when my dad’s heart attacked him, to when he clutched his chest, crumpled on the floor. I hadn’t been able to help him. Who am I fooling? I can’t help anybody.
“Gram,” I insist. “You have to come home.”
“I am on my way, sweetie, but the roads are bad. It’s going to take me a bit.”
“But the dog? He’s really really hurt, Gram. And Nick . . . Nick is missing.”
“What?”
“Nick drove me home and we heard something in the woods and then he raced off and told me to stay inside and he hasn’t come back.”
“And he hasn’t come back? But there’s a dog there now?”
“Yeah. I went out and looked for him and I heard a man in the woods and he was saying my name.”
“Zara!” she interrupts. “Are the doors locked?”
I check. “Yeah. But he’s missing and the dog is so hurt and . . .”
“First, calm down. Take a deep breath. You aren’t going to be any help to Nick if you’re panicking. Okay?”
Embarrassed, I take a deep breath and say, “Okay.”
I stroke the dog’s head. He opens his eyes. Something about his gaze makes me feel calmer and stronger. He trusts me. I can trust me.
“Good,” Betty’s voice takes a hard, calm official tone. “I have just had Josie dispatch a unit to the house, okay? And I am on my way.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“First you’ve got to go wash your hands with hot water and the antibacterial soap. You don’t want to cause an infection.”
I gently lift the dog’s head off my lap and place it on the floor. Stepping around his great bulk, I rush back into the kitchen and scrub my hands.
“Done.”
“Good. Get a towel and put some water on it and get the Neosporin. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.”
I race back into the kitchen and wet a towel and grab the Neosporin. The oven is still on. I don’t turn it off. There’s no time. “Okay.”
“The first thing you’re going to have to do is pull the arrow out.”
“Oh, Gram. I don’t know—”
“You have to. You can do this, Zara. Be strong and steady. I’ll be right here.”
I stare at the arrow and touch it with my finger. The dog moans softly but doesn’t open his eyes.
“I have to put the phone down,” I say.
“Go ahead and put it down, honey.”
I put it on the oriental carpet on the stairs that are next to the front door. Then I wrap my hands around the arrow. It’s thin and hard, cold against my hands. I give a tiny tug. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t move at all, but the dog shudders and makes a little moan. I swear, my heart is breaking.
Something acidic moves up into my throat.
“You can do this,” I tell myself.
I tighten my grip and pull slowly, trying to apply even, smooth force. The arrow fights against me and the dog shivers again, moaning in such a horribly sad way that tears start to tumble down my face. It must hurt so much. I must be hurting him so much.
“Almost there,” I say. “Almost done, doggy. You’re a brave, brave doggy.”
There’s this horrible sucking nose and the arrow squinches out, bringing with it a burst of blood. The dog gives a massive shudder and stops moving.
“Doggy!”
He doesn’t move. Blood pulses out of his wound.
I throw the arrow out of the way and grab the phone, shoving one hand against the hole.
“I did it but now he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding a lot. I’m so sorry, puppy.”
“That’s okay,” Gram answers. “Is it squirting?”
“No,” I stare at the horrible red blood. “It’s slowing down.”
“Good, you don’t have to apply a tourniquet then. Just apply gentle pressure with a bandage. Do you have a bandage?”
“I think so,” I rummage through the first-aid kit, smearing blood all over the tape and the aspirin and the scissors with the funky ends. “Yep. I found it.”
“Okay, Zara. Don’t worry. The worst is over. I’m going to tell you what to do. When the bleeding slows down, you have to clean the wound with water. If there’s any dirt or anything left in there, you’ve got to dip those tweezers in alcohol. They are in the first-aid kit. Okay?”
She’s talking super fast, but I think I’m following her.
“Okay.”
“Then you cut away any fur that’s near that wound so it doesn’t mess with it. Shaving it is better, but that might be too much. Then you put on some Neosporin and bandage it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’ve done a good job, Zara. I’m on my way. The police might get there first, okay?”
“Okay,” I swallow hard. I wish she could come home and help me. I wish I wasn’t alone. “Thanks. Do you think Nick will be okay?”
“Don’t you worry about him, Zara. He’s a special breed, that one. And the police will be there soon.”
“Thanks, Gram,” I say, pushing on the dog’s wound.
“You’re welcome, honey. Good job. I like it when you call me Gram.”
She hangs up and the world is suddenly way too quiet. Special breed? Is that what she said?
I lean down and kiss the dog’s cheek, by his jowls. “Are you thinking she means what I’m thinking?”
He moans.
“Looks like it’s you and me, guy,” I tell him. “But you sleep it off, okay? Do you think you like mashed potatoes?”
The dog doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. I snuggle against him.
The dog and I are alone. But the thing is, I saved him—with Grandma Betty’s help, of course. But I saved him. Me.
Teratophobia
fear of monsters or deformed people
I do everything I can for the dog. I clean his wound and heft sections of his heavy body up so I can wrap him in a blanket. I bandage him and stroke his head while he softly groans in his sleep.
“Poor puppy,” I say, even though he obviously isn’t a puppy. He may not even be a dog. “Do you think Nick’s okay?”
The dog huffs out a sleepy breath. I shiver because there’s a draft by the door and I ease the dog’s head off my leg, placing it on a soft pillow I’d yanked off the couch. He’s so huge.
“Are you a werewolf?” I whisper, ashamed to be even asking it.
He blinks open one eye and stares at me.
“I’m sorry I woke you.” I lean down and kiss him on the top of his muzzle. “You feeling okay?”
Checking his bandage, I pull back the blanket a little.
“I think you’ve stopped bleeding. That’s good. I’m going to go check outside. I’ll be right back. I’m really worried about this Nick guy. Don’t get jealous, though. I’m also really worried about you.�
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The dog tries to lift his head but he’s too tired, I guess, too worn out from his injury. I settle him with my hand. “You rest, sweetie.”
He is so cute, with all that shaggy hair and those big canine shoulders and his jowly jowls. Maybe we can keep him. Betty’s house would be a lot less lonely with a dog around all the time. And aren’t all Maine people supposed to have dogs? I think that’s in the stereotype book along with junked-out trucks in the front yard and a front porch held up with cinder blocks and lobster traps.
I lift up a jowl to check out his teeth. They’re clean and white and huge. The dog opens his eye and stares at me reproachfully.
I let go of his jowl. “Sorry. Way too invasive, I know.”
He wags his tail, just once.
“Thanks for leading me home,” I say. I wish he could understand me.
He wags his tail again.
“I’ll be right back.”
Standing up for real, I check that the front door is locked in case any serial killers want to stop by and then I peek out the window. The snow covers everything, absolutely everything. Nick’s car still sits there. The wheels are buried under. I swallow and pick up the phone book, bring it back into the kitchen, tiptoeing by the now-snoring dog. His jowls shake when he blows out the air.
“You’ll be okay.”
I find Nick’s number in the phone book under “Anna and Mark Colt” and call. There’s no answer.
I call Gram back but I can’t get through. I just go right to her voice mail. I call the dispatcher, who says she’s on her way home.
“Good,” I say and then remember to be polite. “Busy night?”
“You’re telling me,” she says hurriedly as another line rings in the background.
“Any sign of Jay?” I ask.
“The Dahlberg boy?” Josie sighs. “Nope. You sit tight, Zara honey. The deputy was all the way out on Deer Isle but he’s coming your way and Betty is too.”
“Can they hurry?”
“They are, sweetheart. The roads are bad.”
“Okay.”
“You keep your chin up, girl. And don’t worry too much. Nick Colt is a resourceful young man. A real keeper, that boy. You hear me?”
I bite my lip.
“You hear me?” she asks again.
“Yep.”
“Damn. I have another call. You sit tight, Zara.”
What else am I suppose to do? “Yep.”
Useless and sighing, I hang up the phone, stare at the dirty white thread I’d knotted around my finger. My dad would tell me to calm down, that it was my overactive imagination making mountains out of molehills, or some other silly dad cliché.
I miss silly dad clichés.
“Everything will be fine,” I tell the kitchen. A huge gust of wind slams against the house, howling. The lights flicker, turn off for about three seconds, and then come back on again.
The digital display on the microwave flashes the green neon time as 00:00, which seems appropriate. A tree branch scrapes across the window. I jump and grit my teeth.
That is it.
I am going to have to go back out there and look for Nick, but this time I am going to be prepared.
Watch out, potential psycho freaks, competent Zara is ready.
I haul open the door to the basement so I can grab some of Grandma Betty’s old boots and a good winter parka, and maybe some wood in case the power goes out for good and I have to start a fire. In my crazed rush, I stub my toe on one of the trillion railroad ties that Betty’s got stored down there, and then I slam on one boot, then another, and shove a hat on my head. I pound back up the stairs again, boots making me sound heavy and big against the pale wooden stairs. I bite my lip and put the parka on inside out. I have to reach inside and down to zip it up. The thread on my finger catches on the zipper and pulls a little, loosening it. It’s starting to fray.
“I should not be worrying about a string,” I announce to the house.
The house creaks with the wind, which probably means it agrees.
I haul up three logs and balance them in one arm against my side. Wood scrapes stick to the parka. With my other hand I grab the flashlight just as the lights flicker again and go off.
With my luck it wouldn’t be all that surprising if the batteries don’t work, but the light clicks on with a powerful beam.
“Thanks, Betty,” I whisper.
Grandma Betty is the type of prepared lady who would always have fresh batteries in her flashlight.
I stomp up the rest of the stairs and dump the wood on the kitchen counter. The air smells of mashed potatoes and something else, something raw and woodsy.
Fear shivers against my skin, like spiders crawling. Heart racing, I swing the flashlight around the kitchen, terrified of what I might find. The microwave’s digital display doesn’t flash anything now. It’s dark and silent and dead.
I back up and open the silverware drawer, pulling out the biggest knife I can find, the one you cut big vegetables with. It has a large sharp silver blade and a black heavy handle.
A sound comes from the living room. My fingers tightens around the handle. Maybe it’s just the dog.
Or maybe it isn’t.
I slide my feet across the wood floor trying to make as little noise as possible, but it’s hard in Gram’s clodhopper boots. One hand clutches the knife, ready to stab. The other hand holds the flashlight, which is long and heavy and could probably be a good weapon. Right?
One step forward, another, and then I swing the light around the room and right into the eyes of a large naked guy wrapped in a blanket.
Hormephobia
fear of shock
I scream. The flashlight bangs to the floor and rolls away, shutting itself off on impact.
“Zara?” His voice breaks through the darkness.
“Nick, Jesus. You scared the hell out of me,” I say, kneeling down on the floor and trying to find the flashlight. I grab it and turn it back on, my heart beating a million times a minute. How can a heart stand it? “You’re naked.”
“Really, I couldn’t tell,” he jokes weakly.
“Why are you naked?”
I shine the light on his face, not the lower parts, I swear. He raises his arm to shield his eyes, so I lower the beam a little, hitting the smooth lines of his chest and abs. He has the blanket that I’d put on the dog draped around him toga style, so I can only see half of his very fine physique.
That is not the point.
He nods slowly as I stalk toward him. I stand below him and soften. The way his eyes shadow is pitiful. “Are you cold?”
I reach out and touch him with the hand that still holds the knife.
“You’re warm.” My voice comes out frightened and I back up a step. I flash the light onto the doorknob. I locked it. I know I locked it. “How did you get in here?”
“The door,” he says.
I back up some more. “I locked the door.”
He doesn’t say anything. His tired brown eyes meet mine.
I flash the light along the floorboards. It skitters and jumps.
“Where’s the dog?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer me.
“The dog,” I repeat like he doesn’t understand the first time. “There was a dog here. He’s hurt. That blanket you’re wearing, where did you get it? Did you steal it from the dog? Because that was really uncool. He’s hurt.”
He doesn’t answer.
I whirl on him, flashlight zigzagging along with me. “Why are you naked?”
He lifts his eyebrows and walks to the white leather chair that sits beneath the front windows. He sinks into it, wincing. I soften a little, but only a little.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, clomping over.
“I’m okay.”
His voice tells me this is a lie. I don’t know what’s going on, but I decide to pretend to trust him, try to draw whatever it is he’s hiding out into the open.
“Nick, I’ll stop being mad. I’m sor
ry,” I say, placing the knife down on the floor, and the flashlight on the end table. I reach out toward him. “I was worried about you. Strange stuff happened. I went looking for you in the woods and some guy followed me.”
He catches my hand in his. His grip crushes my fingers. “I told you to stay inside.”
“I was worried about you,” I say, trying to be patient. “And I was right to worry.”
His hand loosens and suddenly feels nice around mine, and I bring it to my lips and kiss it, just once, like a peck my mom would give me when I didn’t feel well. I don’t care if he’s naked, I’m glad he’s safe and that I’m not alone.
“And there was this dog,” I say, trying to see what his reaction will be. “He was huge and someone shot him in the shoulder. Did you see him? Maybe he went up the stairs.”
Nick shakes his head.
“I don’t think so,” he says slowly.
“Uh-huh. Okay. I’m not worried about the dog right now,” I explain, taking my fingers out of his. “I’m worried about you.
“I’m fine. I’m healing already.”
“Oh. Right. Healing from what?” I asked.
He looks away.
“You stay there,” I say, pulling myself away. “I’m going to build a fire in the stove.”
I start walking away and then think better of it. “Promise not to move.”
He coughs. “I promise.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.” He laughs lightly like I’m amusing.
Grabbing the flashlight, I hustle back to the kitchen and bring in the logs. I crumple some newspaper in the big black Franklin stove, toss some kindling on, and find one of the long matches Betty keeps in an iron basket thing near the stove. Once the fire starts I put a log on. The flames light the center of the room with a soft, warm glow, but the edges are still dark and mysterious.
The burning wood smell seems comfortable and comforting, like everything is normal, like I didn’t get chased by some crazy guy in the woods or pull an arrow out of a dog’s shoulder or have a naked guy sitting on the chair.
“I can’t believe you can build a fire,” he says.
