Page 23 of Radar

“Reaper here. Hands on the steering wheel. Face forward. Do not move.”

“Wilco. No moving.”

Radar barked at Jerome. Sniffed at him. Pawed at him. And Jerome didn’t move other than a gentle quaking and a good deal of sweat.

Finally, Radar turned his attention to the inside of the car, assessing the interior, looking over the seat to the back.

He didn’t seem to find what he was looking for.

Next, Radar tried threatening. He growled and barked, stomping his foot on the accessory box between them.

“Help.” Jerome squeaked quietly as he white-knuckled the steering wheel, his whole body quivering.

Xander felt for the guy. Radar was intimidating as hell.

Finally, Radar bent his head, gathering something into his mouth, then he scrambled back over Jerome’s lap and leaped through the window.

“Reaper here. Jerome, what did he pick up?”

“My phone and, goddamit, he took my lunch. That’smylunch, man.”

Radar was tearing across the field while Reaper was laughing over the radio. “What did you pack?”

“My mama’s meat loaf sandwich. I’ll bepissedif he eats it. Reaper, there’s gonna be hell to pay if he eats that sandwich.”

At the edge of the woods, Radar dropped the bag and moved to the same spot he’d stopped before and stared into the distance.

From the camera feed, Xander couldn’t make out what made that spot interesting.

A moment later, Radar was back snuffling the lunch bag.

Xander watched with interest. That meat probably smelled delicious. Was it enough to distract Radar from his mission? Xander could see the bag was wet from Radar’s saliva. Radar’s nose went into the top, and he snuffled the scents, but instead of pulling the sandwich out, Radar dropped the phone inside. He chomped down on the items and trotted into the woods and over toward Xander’s tree.

Xander laid the screen down.

Radar was in view. He placed the items at the roots and barked for Xander.

Xander wondered if he thought the food was part of helping him.

Reaper was on the radio. “Xander, the only thing you can say is ‘Radar, get help.’”

“Wilco,” Xander said, then leaned out of the tree house. “Radar, get help.”

Radar picked up the bag, dropped it, and barked.

Xander had to bite off the good boys and praise. He stuck to the script, “Radar, get help.”

Radar picked up the bag and stood on his hind paws, lifting the items toward Xander. Xander lay on the boards and stretched long but couldn’t reach it. So, he said again, “Radar, get help.”

Bag in mouth, Radar trotted away.

The whole thing was genius. Radar had found food and comms. If he’d brought Jerome’s water bottle, Xander would be set.

Xander turned back to the screen to see what Radar was up to.

Radar had once again dropped the bag, then picked it up again. Xander assumed to get it better positioned in his mouth because a moment later, Radar was hauling ass toward the tree.

Radar pressed his paws onto the trunk and was able to run two paces up the tree, release the bag into Xander’s waiting hand, before falling back to the ground.

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