You Are Here(43)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

The dog was nowhere in sight, his white coat conspicuously absent from the surrounding campsite, and so Peter set off toward the car to look for him. When he’d gone to sleep last night, the dog had been at his side, the two of them curled up beside the snuffed-out remains of the fire. And though he knew it was silly, Peter felt like he’d won at least a small battle for the night, pleased that the dog had chosen his company over Emma’s.

But when he peered through the dew-covered window of the convertible, all he saw was Emma, curled in the backseat with her knees drawn close to her chest, her hair falling across her face in a way that made her look very young, and somehow very lost. Peter stood there for a long moment before turning back to the quiet forest.

For the first time he began to feel bad that they hadn’t even given the dog a name—this now-constant companion of theirs—and so he picked his way through the wooded trails, calling out, “Hey, dog!” and whistling every now and again. His feet were loud against the dry branches, and he kicked at the oversized pinecones that lined the paths, his head bent and his eyes searching the gaps between the trees.

It wasn’t until he began his second loop of the campground that he started to worry, his stomach tightening at the idea of moving on without their new friend. He paused and took off his glasses, running a thumb absently along the foggy lenses. The trees were interrupted by thin bands of sunlight, and he held his breath and waited for the dog to emerge, wet and muddy, his tongue lolling out to one side.

“C’mon, dog,” he called out again, his voice hollow and faraway. He put his glasses back on and kicked at the trunk of a pine tree, then said, “Let’s go,” in his best no-nonsense voice.

But there was still no sound, no echoing bark or crashing of branches. And despite everything—Emma and her ridiculous ideas, the muddy paw prints on the backseat of the stolen car, the policemen lining the highways with their flashing red lights, the threat of all that was behind and before them—this was the first time Peter really felt the whole thing being wrenched from his grip. It was as if he’d lost more than just a stray dog that had never really belonged to him in the first place; it was like losing the trip itself.

He walked back slowly, wishing he had a map of the park, the trees marked off as little green circles, the streams running like threads across the page. He was already organizing a search party in his head—breaking the mountainside into neat grids, directing imaginary rescuers to different quadrants—when he arrived back at the car. The side door was half open, and Peter could see Emma’s legs, long and tanned and mosquito-bitten, hanging out the side. She poked her head out as he approached.

“Where were you?”

Peter walked around to the driver’s-side door and sat down heavily in the seat beside her. “I can’t find the dog.”

“Did you look?”

“That’s pretty much what I meant by not being able to find him.”

She scowled at him. “Did you try yelling?”

“Yes.”

“Whistling?”

“Yes.”

“Shouting?”

“That’s the same as yelling,” he said. “He’s not anywhere.”

“Well, he’s got to be somewhere.”

“So you’d think.”

Emma sighed as she got out of the car, and they both slammed their doors hard at the same time, as if it were a contest, the car rocking between them. The sky had lightened a few shades, and the birds were now singing in earnest, but although there were dozens of campers scattered in the woods around them, it somehow felt like they were all alone.

Once they’d walked for a few minutes, Peter cupped his hands around his mouth and called out for the dog again, but Emma lightly touched his arm.

“Let’s listen,” she said. A few squirrels ran circles around a tree branch, and the birds continued their lively chorus, but the world was otherwise still. Peter was working himself up to a sarcastic comment about Emma’s usefulness in this second round of the search when they heard a low-pitched cry, followed by a familiar whine.

Emma set off at a run without even looking at him, careening straight off the path and weaving through the trees at a pace that Peter could hardly match. When he finally caught up to her, she was already bent over the dog, who was lying on his side and panting hard, his eyes wild with panic.

“What happened?” Peter said, skidding to his knees beside Emma, who was cradling the dog’s one front paw in her hand. She spoke to him in a low voice, pressing his head gently to the ground to keep him from thrashing about. Peter moved over and took her place so that she had both hands free to examine the paw, and the dog whined again before resting his head near Peter’s sneaker with a look of resignation.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Emma said, still speaking in the same soft tone. “He cut the pad on something. See here?”

Peter craned his neck and saw that the bottom of the paw was sliced open almost entirely, a clean cut that had turned the white tufts of fur a pinkish red. Any other dog might have limped away, but without use of either of his front legs, he hadn’t been able to move. Peter watched as Emma yanked off her Roanoke sweatshirt and used it to dab at the blood, all the while using her free hand to stroke the trembling dog’s soft ears.

“He’ll be fine, I think,” she said, her mouth set in a straight line, her face as serious as he’d ever seen it. She pressed the sweatshirt against the bottom of his foot, then pulled the elastic band from her ponytail—her hair falling to her shoulders—to fasten the bulky makeshift bandage. “But we’ll need to get him to a vet.”

“Right,” Peter said, looking down at the dog, who must have weighed at least one hundred pounds. He rose to his feet and pushed up his sleeves. “No problem.”

Emma looked up from the dog and had the presence of mind to smile. “You can’t carry him, you idiot,” she said, jerking her head in the other direction. He hadn’t noticed before that just about fifty yards away the road curved in among the trees, the pavement nearly hidden by the thick brush. “Go get the car, Hercules. And then we’ll figure it out from there.”

She turned her attention back to the dog, her head bent with an expression of genuine worry, of fear and urgency and alarm, but also a hint of certainty, the rarest kind of assurance. It was a look he’d never seen from her before, confident as she was, and though he knew it was important to get moving, and though he knew there was no time for this kind of thing, he stood there for a moment anyway, just watching her.