“Okay.”
“You’ve done a good job, Zara. I’m on my way. The police might get there first, okay?”
“Okay,” I swallow hard. I wish she could come home and help me. I wish I wasn’t alone. “Thanks. Do you think Nick will be okay?”
“Don’t you worry about him, Zara. He’s a special breed, that one. And the police will be there soon.”
“Thanks, Gram,” I say, pushing on the dog’s wound.
“You’re welcome, honey. Good job. I like it when you call me Gram.”
She hangs up and the world is suddenly way too quiet. Special breed? Is that what she said?
I lean down and kiss the dog’s cheek, by his jowls. “Are you thinking she means what I’m thinking?”
He moans.
“Looks like it’s you and me, guy,” I tell him. “But you sleep it off, okay? Do you think you like mashed potatoes?”
The dog doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. I snuggle against him.
The dog and I are alone. But the thing is, I saved him—with Grandma Betty’s help, of course. But I saved him. Me.
Teratophobia
fear of monsters or deformed people
I do everything I can for the dog. I clean his wound and heft sections of his heavy body up so I can wrap him in a blanket. I bandage him and stroke his head while he softly groans in his sleep.
“Poor puppy,” I say, even though he obviously isn’t a puppy. He may not even be a dog. “Do you think Nick’s okay?”
The dog huffs out a sleepy breath. I shiver because there’s a draft by the door and I ease the dog’s head off my leg, placing it on a soft pillow I’d yanked off the couch. He’s so huge.
“Are you a werewolf?” I whisper, ashamed to be even asking it.
He blinks open one eye and stares at me.
“I’m sorry I woke you.” I lean down and kiss him on the top of his muzzle. “You feeling okay?”
Checking his bandage, I pull back the blanket a little.
“I think you’ve stopped bleeding. That’s good. I’m going to go check outside. I’ll be right back. I’m really worried about this Nick guy. Don’t get jealous, though. I’m also really worried about you.”
The dog tries to lift his head but he’s too tired, I guess, too worn out from his injury. I settle him with my hand. “You rest, sweetie.”
He is so cute, with all that shaggy hair and those big canine shoulders and his jowly jowls. Maybe we can keep him. Betty’s house would be a lot less lonely with a dog around all the time. And aren’t all Maine people supposed to have dogs? I think that’s in the stereotype book along with junked-out trucks in the front yard and a front porch held up with cinder blocks and lobster traps.
I lift up a jowl to check out his teeth. They’re clean and white and huge. The dog opens his eye and stares at me reproachfully.
I let go of his jowl. “Sorry. Way too invasive, I know.”
He wags his tail, just once.
“Thanks for leading me home,” I say. I wish he could understand me.
He wags his tail again.
“I’ll be right back.”
Standing up for real, I check that the front door is locked in case any serial killers want to stop by and then I peek out the window. The snow covers everything, absolutely everything. Nick’s car still sits there. The wheels are buried under. I swallow and pick up the phone book, bring it back into the kitchen, tiptoeing by the now-snoring dog. His jowls shake when he blows out the air.
“You’ll be okay.”
I find Nick’s number in the phone book under “Anna and Mark Colt” and call. There’s no answer.
I call Gram back but I can’t get through. I just go right to her voice mail. I call the dispatcher, who says she’s on her way home.
“Good,” I say and then remember to be polite. “Busy night?”
“You’re telling me,” she says hurriedly as another line rings in the background.
“Any sign of Jay?” I ask.
“The Dahlberg boy?” Josie sighs. “Nope. You sit tight, Zara honey. The deputy was all the way out on Deer Isle but he’s coming your way and Betty is too.”
“Can they hurry?”
“They are, sweetheart. The roads are bad.”
“Okay.”
“You keep your chin up, girl. And don’t worry too much. Nick Colt is a resourceful young man. A real keeper, that boy. You hear me?”
I bite my lip.
“You hear me?” she asks again.
“Yep.”
“Damn. I have another call. You sit tight, Zara.”
What else am I suppose to do? “Yep.”
Useless and sighing, I hang up the phone, stare at the dirty white thread I’d knotted around my finger. My dad would tell me to calm down, that it was my overactive imagination making mountains out of molehills, or some other silly dad cliché.
I miss silly dad clichés.
“Everything will be fine,” I tell the kitchen. A huge gust of wind slams against the house, howling. The lights flicker, turn off for about three seconds, and then come back on again.
The digital display on the microwave flashes the green neon time as 00:00, which seems appropriate. A tree branch scrapes across the window. I jump and grit my teeth.
That is it.
I am going to have to go back out there and look for Nick, but this time I am going to be prepared.
Watch out, potential psycho freaks, competent Zara is ready.
I haul open the door to the basement so I can grab some of Grandma Betty’s old boots and a good winter parka, and maybe some wood in case the power goes out for good and I have to start a fire. In my crazed rush, I stub my toe on one of the trillion railroad ties that Betty’s got stored down there, and then I slam on one boot, then another, and shove a hat on my head. I pound back up the stairs again, boots making me sound heavy and big against the pale wooden stairs. I bite my lip and put the parka on inside out. I have to reach inside and down to zip it up. The thread on my finger catches on the zipper and pulls a little, loosening it. It’s starting to fray.
“I should not be worrying about a string,” I announce to the house.
The house creaks with the wind, which probably means it agrees.
I haul up three logs and balance them in one arm against my side. Wood scrapes stick to the parka. With my other hand I grab the flashlight just as the lights flicker again and go off.