“She talks to the photographs like he’s going to answer,” I continued. “Leaves the TV on in every room. Fills up the time with random errands just to make the place feel less empty.”
“That’s normal,” she said, so matter-of-fact it stung. “Grief doesn’t like to leave quietly.”
I watched the dog nose at a tumbleweed, then circle back, unsure what to do with so much freedom. “He was gone more than he was home,” I said, and realized I wasn’t talking about the dog anymore. “But when he was there, everything was stricter. Cleaner. We had rules for the sake of rules.”
Emily’s mouth did the half-smile thing again. “You can see it in the way you stand. Straight lines, squared shoulders. It’s not a bad thing. But sometimes the things that keep you upright are the same things that keep you lonely.”
She was looking right at me. I found myself looking away, then back, then away again. The wind lifted her hair across her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear, revealing a trail of black ink—tiny paw prints, four of them, just under the lobe.
“I like your tattoo,” I said.
She shrugged. “My first rescue. The shelter dog that bit me when I tried to put on his cone. I figured if I was going to carry scars, I might as well choose some of them.”
I nodded, understanding.
We kept walking. The path leveled out, and the town unrolled below us, little boxes and streets and the blue smudge of the labs in the distance. Sergeant started pulling less, then not at all, just pacing at my side like he was meant for it.
“Somebody’s got to take care of her. And the club… they’re family. Even when you want to kill them.” I wasn’t sure why I'd shared that, but it was too late to take it back.
“It’s okay to want something for yourself, you know.”
“I don’t know if it is.”
We stood like that for a while, Sergeant pressing into my thigh, the wind louder now. The distance between Emily and me was measured in less than a foot, but it felt bigger. I wanted to close it, to say something that would matter, but all I could do was offer the leash.
She took it, her hand brushing mine. The contact was electric, just for a second. I let go, but she held the leash loosely, not walking away.
“I think he likes it out here,” she said.
“Me too,” I admitted.
The wind cut cold, but I hardly felt it.
She looked at me, long enough to make my heart do something unfamiliar.
“Come by the shelter tomorrow,” she said, her voice softer now. “We’re open late.”
I nodded. “I will.”
She smiled, hair wild in the wind, and gave the leash a little slack so Sergeant could explore. I watched her walk, strong and easy, the paw prints visible against her skin. I realized then that she was seeing me, all the way through, and maybe that was scarier than anything else.
I touched the dog tags one last time, felt the weight of them, and let my hand drop.
The three of us walked back down the trail, shadows long and side by side.
4
Emily
The Humane Society parking lot had been poured in the sixties and never resurfaced. Decades of sun and freeze had cracked it into hexagons and puzzle pieces, like the earth had tried to shrug it off and couldn’t quite finish the job. The afternoon heat shimmered above the blacktop, throwing wavy lines around my ankles as I stood by the exit, the leash in my hand gone slack. Sergeant sat beside me with the resigned patience of a prisoner up for parole, her tongue lolling pink against blue jaws.
Dean was there, too. He and Sergeant had gotten out to walk me to the door. He stood a step away, the sun lighting up the sharp cut of his cheekbone and the matte black helmet perched on the Night Train’s handlebars. Hisleather jacket looked soft from wear, and the patches—the Bloody Scythes insignia, a faded “Los Alamos Original,” a stitched compass rose—were scabbed over with road dust and sun bleach.
He was silent for a long time, just the faint clink of his dog tags against the zipper when he shifted. I didn’t trust silence from men like him, so I filled it. “You grew up around here?” I asked, voice half-strangled by nerves.
He didn’t look away, but his gaze went unfocused, like he was reading something on the horizon. “Born and raised. The Labs, the mesa, that old nuke museum—they all feel smaller when you’ve seen them a few thousand times.” He squinted into the sun, eyes pale and restless. “I do my best to stay out of the ‘nice’ neighborhoods, though. The HOA types tend to call the cops when they see a motorcycle parked after dark.”
I smirked, running my thumb along Sergeant’s collar. “I’ve lived here three years, and the only place I know is the stretch from home to work to the discount grocery.”
