Pain

There's a limit on human tolerance for pain. Pass a breaking point, and the mind shuts down, fainting in some cases, comatose in others, and dead in an unfortunate few- it can't find a home in the in these fried nerve endings. Arguably, this is why we die of old age - a soul refuses to reside in beaten and broken flesh. Entropy wears away like sand on a stone, or disease grips the bones and we are from our one real habitat. But the job of pain isn't to hurt, but to warn of hurt - to call attention to a glitch in the ever renewing and regrowing human body, or to warn of an invasion or terror. And though always uncomfortable, pain may not need feel "bad", we can even get a sense of relief out of pain - like a splinter yearning to be free or a scab pulling on the skin; as C.S. Lewis put it, "It was good pain." Breaking through the hurt is often a vital part of the healign proccess, to the extent that without it, we have no urge to remove the splinter, no matter the infection. Our bodies would no longer have their voice, and they corrode, to be helplessly battered by elements and subject to the gruesome whims we bring them to - until without warnign, they colapse, fail, and ur heart stops, and we are no more.

Truly, the worst thing a Satan could do to the sons and daughters of manking is not hurt, grieve, or even slaughter them; it is numb them until they have no soul left to save.

One World at a Time; Chapter One:

            Lance crouched atop the ruins of the Empire State Building, preparing himself to take a human’s life. In one hand he held a small pistol, in the other he held a hand grenade. He preferred the pistol--a lot less blood that way. And today there would be bloodshed.

            Pulling Binocular Goggles over his eyes, Lance surveyed the rubble below. He spotted the area that was clearest and locked the grenade’s coordinates to that spot. If he threw the grenade now, it would land precisely where he wanted.

            That is, if he really wanted to murder the Emperor.

            Zeppelins rumbled overhead. That meant the Emperor was not far behind--his watchdogs, the wizards, preferred zeppelins. The Emperor preferred wizards.

            Lance took a deep breath and adjusted his position. He might as well be comfortable while he shot the Emperor.

            Emperor Cornid, in his younger days, had killed millions of innocents. “We must weed out opposition,” was his mantra. And that he had done for the past half-century. He was a murderer, a greedy man, and--worst of all--a heretic.

            Lance tightened his grip on the trigger. Squeeze, don’t pull, he reminded himself. This was only the second operation he had been through that didn’t involve magic. Magic was messed up, backfiring even when Wands worked perfectly.

            A car rumbled somewhere behind Lance.

            Lance focused on the clear spot, squinting his eyes, forcing himself not to think about the killing part.

            Just squeeze the trigger, he thought. Let the bullet do the work.

            Sweat glistened on Lance’s forehead. It dripped down and stung the cuts along his forehead, cheeks, and nose. The stinging reminded him of the spell that had backfired, flinging him out a window, fatally wounding his partner…This would be different.

            The limousine came into view, crunching through the rubble until it came to the clear spot. Lance pulled the trigger and missed the tire he had been aiming for. The bullet ricocheted off a building and clattered into the rubble.

            The driver of the limousine punched the gas and roared across the rubble. Lance fired again, hitting the hood of the car. A dull thud rang out, but no damage was visible. Lance gritted his teeth and leapt off the building.

            He had no parachute, wings, or jet pack. He counted on magic. If it backfired--well, the General would kill him anyway if he failed on this mission. Might as well risk it.

            Lance quickly solved an equation in his head and put it into play with magic. Magic was math--in a way. If you were good at math, you were good at magic.

            The air around Lance shimmered and made his skin itch. Not that he cared while he fell several thousand feet. He felt himself slowing, getting under control. His feet touched the ground where there were skid marks from the car. By now, the car could be almost anywhere in the city.

            Lance ran forward--just in time. Behind him, the air that had cushioned his fall, exploded and made the Empire State Building creak. One of its rusted supports buckled, and glass and metal sprayed hundreds of yards. Lance ducked behind a large boulder and waited for the shaking to end.

            The building groaned and leaned towards Lance.

            Now might be a good time to run, he thought. Then he leaped up and ran. Parts of the building crashed down all around him. A metal support nearly crushed his foot, and another smashed into an alley he was about to run into.

            The bulk of the building groaned one last time and careened down. It ground into several other buildings, crashing, bending, screeching. Debris--large and small--banged around Lance as he ran and dodged. An old, battered desk fell out a window and smashed into his right arm. Sharp pain informed him it was broken.

            Lance finally cleared the blasting zone of the Empire State Building. Without taking time to breath, he ran on, following the skid marks of the limo.

            “Halt!” a wizard said behind him.

            Lance veered into an alley, but a wizard blocked the way out. He turned and sped in the opposite direction, but he was surrounded.

            “You didn’t think you could get away, did you?” Captain Limsky laughed. “Hello! We were right up there, following your every move.”

            “Limsky,” Lance said. He stepped forward with malicious intent, but a wizard grabbed him. Lance knew better than to resist.

            “Let’s see,” Limsky said, ignoring the tablet an orderly offered him. “You’re under arrest, Lance Raeburn, for treason, murder, theft, unlawful magic, disrupting the peace, and walking towards an officer with malicious intent. Did I miss anything?”

            “Traitor,” Lance spat.

            “Right,” Limsky said. “I thought I covered that one in ‘treason.’”

            “Not me, Limsky, you! Why?”

            Limsky gave Lance a long, smug look. He pulled a knife from his belt and raked it across Lance’s face. Crying out, Lance tried to reach up, but the wizards gripped him tightly.

            “There’s a scar to match the one you gave me,” Limsky said. He smiled at the wizards. “Take him out of my sight.”

            The wizards dragged Lance down the road and forced him into a building. They went into an elevator and waited while it scraped up to the top floor where a huge hole gaped in the ceiling. A ladder perched on the edge of the hole, leading up to a zeppelin that was docked just off the building.

            “Into the zeppelin,” a wizard barked.

            Lance struggled to get free, willing to take the risk now that his future seemed certain. If they took him onto that zeppelin, he would never come off again. Not alive.

            A burly wizard--Tom--rammed his knee into Lance’s stomach.

            “Into the Zeppelin!”

            Lance allowed himself to be dragged across the landing, into the zeppelin. He made an act of looking worn out and sick. A plan was beginning to form in his head.

            “We got ‘im,” Tom said to another wizard. “Limsky wants us to go on the preplanned course now. And this thing--”

            Tom kicked Lance.

            “This thing needs to go to the brig.”

            Lance eyed the walls. Red arrows were painted on the sides, pointing, he assumed, to the main bridge. If he could just get there for a even a few moments…

            Lance wrenched free and slammed his head into Tom’s face. He smacked a gruard out of the way and darted into a corridor. He followed the red arrows, trying to calculate how long it would take the wizards to catch up.

            Alarms blared.

            “A prisoner just escaped and is going towards the evacuation chamber!” a wizard shouted over the intercom. “First one to catch him gets extra rations tonight!”

            Evacuation chamber?

            Lance veered left, just barely dodging a group of wizards. They shouted and ran after him. One shot a fireball out of his wand. Lance dropped low and dived behind several crates. Exploding, the fireball filled the corridor with smoke. The walls were undamaged; magic proof.

            Lance used the cover of smoke to sneak down the hallway. He knew that the wizards would be scrying for him, and that if he didn’t hurry, they would catch him. And since he had escaped, the law would allow them to kill him without a trial. It would just mean paperwork for Limsky.

            “There he is!” the fireball wizard shouted.

            Lance coughed and ran onwards. He dodged a cloud of stinging ice, a blast of pure electricity, and--

            The walls around Lance shattered and sprayed wood all across the corridor. The walls were magic proof--there was only one wizard powerful enough to undo that.

            Limsky laughed and fired a sphere of powerful gravity out of his palm again. As the sphere traveled, it gained more gravity. The walls bent in and imploded around Lance. Several shards pounded into his skin, penetrating beyond muscle.

            Lance turned around and faced Limsky.

            “What are you going to do?” Limsky chuckled as he undid gravity around himself. “Explode yourself again?”

            Lance gritted his teeth and let loose a flurry of tiny, black shards. The shards whistled forward, but Lance didn’t stay to listen. He ran as quickly as he could, hoping there was no thread attaching him to the explosion about to follow.

            A thunderous shockwave threw Lance off his feet. The walls around him caught fire; the explosion had gone beyond the threshold of the walls’ anti-magic barrier. Lance knew the zeppelin would explode if the fire wasn’t put out.

            Oh well.

            Lance stumbled to his feet again. The zeppelin shook, on fire outside as well as in. It slowly leaned to the left, and gravity seemed to dissapear as it fell. Grabbing hold of a rail, Lance ran forward. The rail shook and vibrated, jarring his hands as he pulled himself along.

            The alarm became increasingly loud in Lance’s ears. Wizards rushed around him, but none tried to stop him. They had a bigger emergency on their hands.

            A sign came into view. It said, “Brig,” in big, bold lettering. It wasn’t part of his plan but…anyone who was Emperor Cornid’s enemy was Lance’s friend. They didn’t deserve to die in the coming crash.

            Lance blasted the door open. Heat clawed up his arm and red skin peeled back. The magic had almost backfired.

            Lance ran through the doorway and fell down long, metal stairs. Inside the brig rattled and shook more than up above.

            “Who are you?” said a fearful voice behind bars.

            “Lance. I’m here to rescue all of you.”

            “All of us?” the young boy’s voice asked. “I’m the only one still alive.”

            Something in the zeppelin snapped. The stairway bent and creaked, nearing the point when it would be ripped apart.

            Lance put his wounded hand on the lock. Something inside exploded, and the door swung open.

            “Can you walk?” Lance asked.

            Instead of answering, the boy stood up and ran. Lance followed after him.

            Two minutes later the zeppelin exploded.

My Death, 2

This starts where the last one left off, so you might need to refresh your memory before reading this.


The rest of the ride to school passed with Stacie’s relentless teasing. Robin directed all her witty comebacks out the window.
In the school parking lot, Robin and Stacie met up with Brent. The stocky guy usually spent Friday nights out with his wrestling team, but spent in between class periods and lunch hour with the girls.
Brent was a chick-magnet by definition: football-sized biceps, clean-shaven dimpled chin and dark eyes, and his widow’s peak ending in a boyish curl. Most girls freaked if Brent so much as smiled at them in the halls. This was regular ammunition for Robin’s and Stacie’s good-natured jibes.
This morning, on their way into Chemistry, Stacie hung playfully on Brent’s arm.
“What?” she asked dramatically, “No adorable girlfriend to steal you away from us this morning?”
Brent pretended to ignore her, but a nonchalant smiled escaped. “Don’t let your boyfriend see,” is the only reaction she got out of him.
During these antics, Robin usually stayed a safe distance away, egging either one on, depending on which one had the upper hand. “No, Brent,” Robin joked, “Don’t let any girls see. No need to break heart before lunch.”
Brent’s olive skin flushed a deep purple. “I’m not the one with the boyfriend,” he repeated.
“We should hope not!” Stacey gloated. He was defeated. Like a cornered snake, Brent jabbed Stacey in the ribs. She was fatally ticklish and doubled up on the spot. Unluckily, she became a road block for the student traffic behind her.
She shouted when the boy stumbled over her. He was one of those tall, gangly boys who gain their height in high school but have to wait until college to fill in the rest.
Robin didn’t see his face. Brent apologized to him, but none of them knew his name. In fact, after Robin planted Stacey back on her feet, the three continued to Biology and Robin forgot all about it.

Stepping through Mr. Barrus’ door and meeting his stern look, they quickly dropped their jokes to whispers. Stacie let go of Brent’s arm and flung her backpack onto her desk with a bang. Robin and Brent took seats on either side of her.
“Today,” Mr. Barrus announced, “is lab work. Pick partners, all of you. Or do I have to assign them?”
Suddenly, as if a blender switched on, the class conglomerated, each partnering singling out their best friends before they were claimed by someone else. Without a thought, the trio grouped and made for the lab space in the back of the classroom, strapping bug-eye goggles to their faces.
“No,” declared Mr. Barrus, suddenly appearing behind them. “No three-some. One of you go find another partner.”
Wordless, Brent shrugged and sauntered off. Robin and Stacie glanced at each other before suctioning on the goggles and selecting their frog.
Brent, who wandered around the room for several minutes, was unable to find a free partner, until Mr. Barrus finally joined him with a kid who planned to complete the lab alone. Robin recognized the guy but didn’t know his name. It was fine; Brent could get along with anyone. Robin concentrated on taking the frog apart and piecing together her new plan.
“Before you begin,” Mr. Barrus droned, “know the rules: There will be no mutilations, no puppeteers, and what is your question Miss Jarrett?”
“Um, are we sure they’re dead?” Stacey inquired. Robin knew exactly what she was thinking. The worst kind of blood is warm.
“Yes.”
“How can we be sure?”
“Well, if Miss Jarrett would like to take a pulse…”
“I was told they were sedated,” Robin added. “What if they wake up?”
“They were sedated, Miss Daw, to death. Now if you two are past your fears of zombie frogs…” he allowed the class to giggle for a few minutes before relaying the rest of the instructions.
Stacie, however, couldn’t stand the sight of blood, no matter the temperature. While she alternated between pretend fainting and making throw-up noises, Robin carefully sliced down the frog. Stacey named herself scribe and allowed Robin to dictate the notes to her.
She largely ignored Mr. Barrus’ cautious directions. Going mostly by feel, Robin carefully dissected the frog and her next plan.

The drive home seemed longer than usual. Robin lived on the outskirts of town, where the roads became windy and less busy. “You really need to get your own car,” Stacie commented on the way. Robin turned her attention to the passenger window, only to be met by the little white house from this morning. She quickly averted her attention to the road ahead.
Her windows dark, but Robin wasn’t worried; she often beat Tom home. Thanking Stacie for the ride, Robin practically leapt through the back door, the only one they kept unlocked. Robin left her backpack on the couch and dashed upstairs to her room. She had left her laptop on her desk, humming, the screen dark. Robin slid into the swivel chair and rubbed her finger over the mouse pad to revive her computer. The screen brightened to reveal a Google search with many tabs. Their headings were as varied as their subjects: how to perform a Séance; Necromancy online bookstore; Thanatos in Greek Mythology. Robin erased the subject for the latter and re-entered the search: Reanimation.
The search revealed loads of websites, most useless site for horror junkies like Ghost Hunter’s Chatroom or do-it-yourself computer animation programs. The few that held any promise were all hypothetical, the sources ranging from online sorcerers to hopeful medical professionals. Robin edited her search several times; practicing reanimation; bring back the dead; Reanimate the dead. Ultimately, the search was fruitless. Sighing, Robin put down the window and closed the laptop. She sat bemused for a few minutes, swiveling her chair, twiddling her hair and staring at nothing. In a second, she shook herself awake from a daydream. Robin vacated her room to take up her usual residence in the kitchen. The laptop sat alone in the dark, humming.
Robin swung the refrigerator door open in search of left-over’s or something microwaveable. Nothing. The freezer dinners were freezer burnt and the cupboards equally fruitless so she settled on her culinary specialty, scrambled eggs smothered in ketchup, and settled herself in front of the TV to do homework.
A few moments later, the back door’s rusted hinges announced an arrival and Tom walked in, stomping concrete off his shoes. He looked up and saw Robin with her scrambled eggs. “Homework?” he asked, glancing at the flashing TV.
“Yeah,” Robin replied, scooping red eggs into her mouth. “Biology.”
Tom nodded. In a predetermined rut, he strode into the living room, shut off the TV, and walked past Robin’s armchair into the kitchen. She dug into the cushions until she found the remote and switched it back on. Behind her, she heard Tom exclaim at the age of the freezer dinners. Robin already shut her text book and switched off the set before Tom poked his head around the corner. “Is there anything else to eat?”
“Do you like eggs?”
“No ketchup, please.”

They sat opposite each other at a table for six. Tom always insisted they eat around a table ‘like a normal family.’ That phrase annoyed Robin, but she never said anything. It was like Tom thought they were some freak mutation trying to imitate the real thing. She sat there bored, her eggs already eaten, and endured Tom failing to start a decent father-daughter conversation. He asked aimlessly about school, friends, boys, until all the general topics were exhausted and Robin could safely excuse herself from the table. She dumped her soiled plate into the sink and escaped to her room.
Shutting the door behind her, Robin dove into the swivel chair and wheeled it back to the desk. The laptop was humming louder than usual; Robin knew she shouldn’t leave it on all day if she didn’t want it to overheat. She checked her email inbox—empty as usual—and tried a few more web searches all without success. It wasn’t surprising, because Robin didn’t even know what she was looking for.

That night Robin was brushing her teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Tom poked his head in for a quick goodnight before sauntering off to his bedroom at the end of the hallway. He always went to bed early, except on Sundays. Crossing the hall, wanting only to flop into bed and not move until six-thirty, Robin shut her door behind her. Before she could flop, however, She noticed something tacked to her door. It was that horse calendar Tom had given her last Christmas. Robin hated horses. She was terrified of them ever since one bucked her off one summer. She’d left the calendar up because throwing it away made her feel guilty about Tom. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t know his daughter at all. He wasn’t much of a family man.
She stared at it from where she sat on the bed. A mustang herd stampeded towards her, ears back and eyes rolling. How did a photographer take a shot like that? A dark line formed on her forehead. Robin climbed off the bed, marched over, and pulled out the tack. The calendar fell and lay on her bedroom floor like a wounded goose. She still lacked the courage to throw it away, and it was getting late, besides. Robin decided to forget it was there and climbed back into bed.
As much as she wanted to lose herself completely in blissful, dreamless sleep, one stabbing though kept getting in the way: the spirit boy.
He had been so casual about the whole business. Thanatos warned Robin that recalled spirits were usually violent, eager to share the truth about their life and death with the living, but this kid acted as if death was no big deal. Everything about him suggested the difference between the living and dead was as slight as who remembered to put deodorant on that morning and who forgot—the way he regarded Robin, he must have thought that she was the latter. It was those eyes that wouldn’t let her sleep. Those brown eyes had been totally indifferent, but completely aware. He wasn’t a vague sort of person; he noticed everything. Robin could tell by the way he looked in her eyes and seemed to be viewing her entire thought process. He’s aware of everything, Robin thought as she lay motionless on top of the covers. Death must be very boring.

Then a thought occurred to her. She sprang off her bed and dove underneath, rifling until she snagged a six-inch-thick tome. The faded cover read Thanatos. She flipped aimlessly through the yellowing pages. It was as dull a read as a computer manual and much harder to understand. The language looked like Shakespeare, with F’s replacing S’s and thou replacing you. Most of the book she hadn’t even glanced at; until now, she had mainly focused on “VI: Conversing with Death.” But tonight, sitting cross-legged on her bed, she studied page after page. She discovered chapters on anything you could possibly want to do to (or with) a spirit that has moved on. She searched until she found something more tailored to her situation.
Nearly an hour passed before Robin found what she was looking for. She stashed the library book in its usual spot under the bed and wormed into her sheets, still in her jeans and t-shirt.


Robin ran to catch up with Gordon.
“Does Mom know?” she asked, panting as she tried to keep up with his long gait. The ranch wasn’t a far walk: a few blocks outside the subdivision.
“It won’t kill her.” A smile split Gordon’s tan face.
Gordon worked for a rancher during the summer to earn the money for football. Gordon didn’t really have “smarts” so football was his ticket to college. The owner of the ranch, “Butch” Cutler, was an old cowboy who cussed through his smile and smelled of chili. Robin loved to visit him.
The horses weren’t used for recreation since they had to be fresh for herding, but Butch, who had three daughters, wasn’t opposed to young girls helping with a round up. Robin had never ridden a horse before, but Gordon assured her it was easy.
“Just let them know who’s boss,” he told her as Robin followed after his broad back.
Somehow, the journey seemed half as long, because Gordon was already opening the stable doors. It was dark inside and Robin could smell the horses long before she saw them. The one nearest her, a dapple gray, blew Robin’s hair with its musty breath.
“Can I ride this one?”
“What one?” Gordon turned around from saddling up a chocolate-colored Bay. He paused.
“You sure you want to ride her? She’s…” Gordon said, but Robin gave him a certain nod and he immediately consented. “Ride close behind me,” he instructed, “Grey will follow Rose.”
Robin was still too short to mount, so Gordon gave her a leg up. Grey was really fat; Robin felt like she was doing the splits. She gave Grey an experimental kick on the sides. Grey tossed her head, but stayed put while Gordon disappeared back into the barn. Robin waited several minutes before he reemerged, leading Grey’s double. As soon as Gordon mounted and urged the horse into motion, Robin’s horse started a little and trotted to keep up.
“They’re twins,” Gordon called over his shoulder to Robin, who was clinging to the horse’s bridle and mane, suddenly very aware of the height of horses. “Grey can be a real pain, but she’ll follow her sister anywhere.”
The ride was smooth for the first part. Just shy of setting, the golden sun sprinkled through the tree cover inside the pasture. Robin relaxed a little. She forgot the dangerous animal below her. Birds sang and Gordon talked. Grey, head down to follow her sister’s tail, walked at a leisurely pace. They had all the time in the world.
Gordon and Robin chatted the whole time. Gordon glanced behind him to respond to Robin’s half-shouted questions. Mostly, they talked about school. Gordon told Robin about girls and school work and which teachers to avoid with she became a freshmen. Robin gave Gordon girl advice and asked questions about the boys who wouldn’t leave her alone. Then they reached the stream.
It was wide, but fairly shallow. Gordon snapped a twig off a nearby tree and threw it into the current and proved it slow enough. Clicking his tongue, he encouraged Rose into the stream. Halfway through, the water came up to her knees. Behind him, Robin was having trouble.
Grey stopped an inch from the water. She looked to her sister, who was crossing without trepidation. She looked back at the water. Suddenly, Grey grunted to encourage her sister to return, but Rose sloshed steadily forward. Grey tossed her mane and her ears went flat. Climbing onto the opposite bank, Gordon turned around just in time to see Grey buck.
Robin held on tight. She felt like she was clinging to a tiny boat in the middle of a storm, like she was in several car crashes in succession. Suddenly, she wasn’t on the horse anymore. The impact with the ground knocked the wind out of her. Between gasps and coughs, she heard Gordon sloshing his mare back out of the river. Rose calmed her sister while Gordon leaped off. Immediately, he checked Robin for broken bones—by tickling her, of course.
Gordon lifted Robin out of the dirt by her armpits. He told her she was fine, but Robin knew she’d feel the bruises in the morning. Gordon hoisted her onto Rose and mounted up behind her. Grey, suddenly the model of serenity, dolefully clopped after Rose. Gordon, describing the hilarity of his sister’s fall to Robin, re-forged the river.


At the beep of the alarm clock, Robin flung off the covers of the bed and landed flat on her stomach. Digging under the bed revealed Thanatos. Robin sat up and opened the book to where her place marker was: “XI: Visiting the Dead.”

The last we saw of Dunningham Bridge

It was a thick overcast, and the sun's powerful glow was scattered through the scene. The old bridge seemed tired and weary of its thirty years in the suffused light. Traffic was low for a large city; every car that drove on felt it was intruding on the lazy morning. Kim Harding was not paying any attention, because that's what tinted window and half-blown car speakers are for - to make you forget. She paid her five dollars to the man aat the toll booth and drove up the bridge's slight incline. At the crest of the ark, she slowed. And stopped. And rolled down her right side window. And turned down her music. She stared for a couple seconds. And then, instinctively, she slammed on the gas pedal and was off the bridge an instant before it was smashed to peices.

The man in the toll booth was reported missing. The newspapers were livid for about two days, called it everything from a flash flood to an act of a restless god. One witness claimed he saw the water "bulge up, and then go flat down". Scientists from geothermal to erosion to aquatic biologists were called in and hung about for days, measuring things and capturing fish and digging little holes. The biggest mystery, though, was just completely gone the bride was. Hundreds of tons of metal were demolished in a clean line on the shore. And nobody seemed to know where the entire middle of it had gone.

My Death, Chapter 1

“It’s not fair!”
Stacey jabbed at Robin. She nearly ran off the winding country road in the process.
“Hey!” shrieked Robin and nudged the wheel back for Stacey, who was laughing too hard, her blond hair getting in her face.
“You’ll kill us both!” Robin shrieked at her.
“Ask some one, or I will kill us!”
“No!”
“Oh!” Stacey pouted her glossy lips at the road in front of her, “Why not? If you don’t, I’ll be all alone with Jeremy at the dance, and I’m sure you’d like that!”
“Everyone’s already been asked,” Robin countered, looking out the window.
“Nu-uh, I could name five guys who haven’t been asked yet and are just dying to go.” Stacey, without looking, waggled a white, bony finger at her best friend.
“Then you ask them,” Robin replied, grabbed the finger in a fleshy tan fist. “I’d love to watch people kill themselves over who gets to kiss you goodnight.”
“Don’t be lame, Robin.”
“Fine. I'll ask one and you'll ask the other four.”
“I’m serious! Plenty of people want to go with you!”
“Name one.”
“Brent.”
Robin made a show of shuddering. “We’re just friends. It’d be weird.”
“Robert and I are just friends.” Stacey said helpfully.
“Friends who go to a movie every weekend and stay in the theatre an hour after the movie ends?”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“We were talking!”
“With tonsils?”
“You weren’t even there," Stacey coolly pointed out. "You wouldn’t know. And don’t,” she quipped, making another poke at her best friend, “change the subject! Ah!”
The blue sports car suddenly jolted as if it went over a huge speed bump.
“What’d I hit?” Stacey exclaimed and squealed the breaks.
Robin was already pushing the passenger door open.
The terrier was one of those little, skinny, white ones with a red spot on its back.
“A dog,” she mouthed at Stacey through the windshield. Stacey, the dog lover, cupped her hands over her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Robin really didn’t want to hear her friend cry; it sounded like a hyena coughing up a hair ball. Instead, she took off her windbreaker and wrapped up the tiny body. Its flank was caved in where the ribs should have been. As she held it in her arms and carried it to the side of the road, her heart sank. It was still breathing.
“Is it ok?” Stacey panted from behind her. Robin could already hear the sobs forming in Stacey’s throat.
“It’s fine,” she lied. “Is your car ok?”
Stacey raced back. Robin let go of her breath and laid the little dog down. She unfolded her jacket to assess the damage. Its leg wasn’t natural and its rib cage shuddered, looking like wind over water. To make it even better, the puppy—for it couldn’t be very old—started to regain consciousness. It made the most pathetic whimpers.
Robin bit her lip and brushed her brown hair behind her ear. A second’s hesitation, then she grabbed the puppy’s quivering snout and wrenched it sharply to the left. Its whimpers stopped. Robin felt her heart freeze.
“Is it ok?” Stacey said, returning more composed.
“It’s dead,” Robin answered. “I’ll bet it belongs to that house over there.”

Robin told Stacey to call her dad and let him know about the car, which had a small dent in the bumper. Robin, little dog body in her arms, crossed the street behind the sportscar because Stacey could never handle blood.
The small lawn belonged to an equally small, white house. It had hula-hoops and tricycles in the driveway. Without pausing, Robin climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell, nestling her jacket into the crook of her arm to do so. Answering was a little boy who looked about nine with brown hair and bare feet. He looked at her vaguely. Behind him was a woman in dirty jeans.
“Yes, what is it?” the young mother asked with a tired and polite smile.
“Is this your dog?” Robin said, uncovering the terriers face. The boy’s face changed from blandness to shock. Silent, it stayed there.
“Dandy?” he asked. Then in a moment his freckled face screwed up. Surly and reverent, the boy took his dog out of Robins arms. She bent down so he could do so. He marched past Robin down the steps and around behind the house out of sight.
“Alex?” His mother called. She followed him, wringing her hands. Robin was left standing awkwardly on the porch and shivered. It was still early spring and quite cold without a jacket.

Back in the blue car, Stacey was tapping at her phone.
“Was it theirs?”
“Yeah,” Robin answered, clicking in her seat belt.
“Too bad,” Her friend murmured, starting the car.
As they rumbled down the road, Stacey continued, “Anyway, who are you going to ask?”