Page 8 of Wanted

The dog butts against my hand with a cold snout. The front paws tap against the earth as it scoots as close as possible in the small space.

“You better be nice,” I tell it, lowering my palm to the top of its furry head.

Warmth immediately seeps into my skin. The dog presses closer, lowering its snout to my lap.

“You would have come in handy last night while I was cold.” I yawn and stroke the top of its head. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

If there’s a dog, there must be people close, right? The animal seems too nice to live feral in the woods.

“Did someone lose you too?”

Only a handful of hours away from people, and I’m already talking to the animals as if they can respond.

The dog moves closer, swiping a gentle lick over my coat sleeve as if it can detect the injury beneath the fabric.

I sink my fingers into the heavy fur around its scruff, and my tired eyes drift closed.

The dog is gone.

The warmth from its thick coat is the only thing left behind. Sunlight still filters through the branches of my shelter, so it can’t be more than an hour or two later.

My head pounds. The forgotten injury makes itself known. Did I hit it when I jumped from the car? A flash of nausea churns my stomach. I probably have a concussion. Whatever I did rattled a few screws loose.

The muscles in my calves protest as I straighten my legs and grip the ground beneath me in an attempt to stand. My legs wobble, but I regain my footing enough to shuffle from the shelter into the fresh air.

The fog in my head tells me this situation isn’t good.

A playful bark breaks from the surrounding trees, announcing the presence of an animal. My furry white friend from earlier trots out from behind a thick pine tree and brushes against my knees. I balance myself by stabilizing my fingertips on its back.

“You must not have gone far,” I say, stroking its fur.

The dog circles my legs before walking a few paces away. It looks back at me, and the intention is clear.

Follow.

I don’t know how I know that, but I do. This dog probably knows its way to food, and if there’s food, there’s a good chance people are nearby.

At the very least a town.

With my options being to follow the dog or return to the highway, I think my chances are better with the dog.

We go slow. It stays close to my side as it leads me away from my temporary shelter and farther from the road. Or at least the direction I think the road is in. I glance from left to right. I must have gotten turned around.

A new pain in my side kicks in the longer we walk until I’m panting and stopping every few steps to draw in deeper breaths.

“Hang on there, buddy,” I gasp through a sharp jab in my ribs. I palm the nearest tree trunk for support. “I think… I need… a break.”

The dog barks once and circles me, its feet tapping against the icy snow crystals. The wind blows the skirt around my ankles, sending goose bumps skittering up my cold legs. I clench my jaw tight against my chattering teeth.

The next gust sends a tremor so hard through me that I sink to my knees. I connect with the solid ground with a gasp.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

But I can’t.

Emotions rush me at once. I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m tired, and I’m so fucking hungry that I can’t tell if I’m nauseous from the concussion or from a lack of food.

Heat envelops my back as the dog wraps itself around me where I sit beneath the tree.

---