gloom.
She heard a rustling from one of the corners, and turned her head to pinpoint the origin. Knowing that it could very well be a rat or a raccoon, or even a savage fisher cat, she crept closer, the dog biscuit trembling slightly between her gloved fingers.
She smelled the animal before she saw it—a pungent concoction of swamp water and breath that could only come from rotting teeth and a stomach eating itself from hunger. Knowing that no small wild animal she’d ever encountered had smelled so desperately canine, she was emboldened, and, stepping around a wide pillar, she caught sight of him, nose to a pile of rubble, mangy black and tan fur poking at odd angles between bald spots where he’d probably licked himself raw from flea infestations. One ear was split at the tip (probably from a fight), and she shuddered to think of how thin he’d look if not for the long fur.
She wished for clean water to offer him and regretted not bringing wet dog food. Even the cookie might be too much for him to digest in his emaciated state, and she had to stifle a hitching sob, had to catch and suppress it in her breast at the sight of the poor thing. He scratched and pawed at the rubble until he succeeded in unearthing a crumbled shred of dirty tin foil left behind by some vagabond or junkie. Whatever juices the treasure had once contained, their residue was surely rank by now, and she had to resist the urge to shout a command at him to drop it, as if he were already her own and would listen rather than flee.
Becca crushed the biscuit in her hand and watched the dog tear the foil with a shake of his muzzle. He lapped at the scrap, and she hoped it wasn’t coated with narcotics that had been boiled over a garbage fire.
Dropping the foil, the dog snuffled along the dirty concrete floor for a few inches, then catching either Becca’s scent or that of her offering, he looked up and locked eyes with her. His fur rose in a ridge along his spine and his tail stiffened, but his ears remained cocked forward.
She held her palm out, displaying the crushed cookie, and blew a breath down her arm to carry the taste of it to him.
He took a tentative step forward, lowering his head between his shoulder blades, but stopped a good yard away from her, uncertain.
“Hey, little guy. You’re a boy, right? You want a cookie?”
Ravenous as he was, he bided his time, waited for her next move.
Sensing that a dance had begun between them, Becca tossed a piece of the biscuit. It rolled through the dust and landed a foot from the dog’s nose.
Now it was she who waited.
The dog seized the morsel and retreated to his original position where he chewed it with a jerky crunching and swallowed it down.
“Django,” she cooed, trying the name out for the both of them. She liked the way it sounded. He took a tentative step toward her. She held her hand out. But he wasn’t quite ready to eat from it yet.
A new smell reached her nose now, overpowering the funk of the dog, an aroma of earth and fire. It took her a moment to identify it, but then it came to her: burning sage, and with it a voice, a muted baritone echoing through the labyrinth of brick and metal and broken glass. They weren’t alone, and damn it, whoever he was, he was going to scare the dog off before she could finish earning his trust.
The voice grew louder—it sounded like a chant, a droning litany, and she started to think it might be more than one person. Her mind’s eye conjured a fleeting vision of robed ritualists walking in a procession through the derelict mill, carrying candles and swinging censers on chains. But then, despite the dirge-like rendition, she recognized the melody and her tense muscles relaxed. It was a song, “Dirty Water,” by the Standells.
Becca stood frozen, peering through a narrow doorway into the next room, where a jungle of hanging swathes of moth-eaten cloth obstructed her view of the singer. When she turned her gaze back on the cracked floor
She heard a rustling from one of the corners, and turned her head to pinpoint the origin. Knowing that it could very well be a rat or a raccoon, or even a savage fisher cat, she crept closer, the dog biscuit trembling slightly between her gloved fingers.
She smelled the animal before she saw it—a pungent concoction of swamp water and breath that could only come from rotting teeth and a stomach eating itself from hunger. Knowing that no small wild animal she’d ever encountered had smelled so desperately canine, she was emboldened, and, stepping around a wide pillar, she caught sight of him, nose to a pile of rubble, mangy black and tan fur poking at odd angles between bald spots where he’d probably licked himself raw from flea infestations. One ear was split at the tip (probably from a fight), and she shuddered to think of how thin he’d look if not for the long fur.
She wished for clean water to offer him and regretted not bringing wet dog food. Even the cookie might be too much for him to digest in his emaciated state, and she had to stifle a hitching sob, had to catch and suppress it in her breast at the sight of the poor thing. He scratched and pawed at the rubble until he succeeded in unearthing a crumbled shred of dirty tin foil left behind by some vagabond or junkie. Whatever juices the treasure had once contained, their residue was surely rank by now, and she had to resist the urge to shout a command at him to drop it, as if he were already her own and would listen rather than flee.
Becca crushed the biscuit in her hand and watched the dog tear the foil with a shake of his muzzle. He lapped at the scrap, and she hoped it wasn’t coated with narcotics that had been boiled over a garbage fire.
Dropping the foil, the dog snuffled along the dirty concrete floor for a few inches, then catching either Becca’s scent or that of her offering, he looked up and locked eyes with her. His fur rose in a ridge along his spine and his tail stiffened, but his ears remained cocked forward.
She held her palm out, displaying the crushed cookie, and blew a breath down her arm to carry the taste of it to him.
He took a tentative step forward, lowering his head between his shoulder blades, but stopped a good yard away from her, uncertain.
“Hey, little guy. You’re a boy, right? You want a cookie?”
Ravenous as he was, he bided his time, waited for her next move.
Sensing that a dance had begun between them, Becca tossed a piece of the biscuit. It rolled through the dust and landed a foot from the dog’s nose.
Now it was she who waited.
The dog seized the morsel and retreated to his original position where he chewed it with a jerky crunching and swallowed it down.
“Django,” she cooed, trying the name out for the both of them. She liked the way it sounded. He took a tentative step toward her. She held her hand out. But he wasn’t quite ready to eat from it yet.
A new smell reached her nose now, overpowering the funk of the dog, an aroma of earth and fire. It took her a moment to identify it, but then it came to her: burning sage, and with it a voice, a muted baritone echoing through the labyrinth of brick and metal and broken glass. They weren’t alone, and damn it, whoever he was, he was going to scare the dog off before she could finish earning his trust.
The voice grew louder—it sounded like a chant, a droning litany, and she started to think it might be more than one person. Her mind’s eye conjured a fleeting vision of robed ritualists walking in a procession through the derelict mill, carrying candles and swinging censers on chains. But then, despite the dirge-like rendition, she recognized the melody and her tense muscles relaxed. It was a song, “Dirty Water,” by the Standells.
Becca stood frozen, peering through a narrow doorway into the next room, where a jungle of hanging swathes of moth-eaten cloth obstructed her view of the singer. When she turned her gaze back on the cracked floor
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