The damn wiper blade had broken again--on the driver’s side, naturally. Zanna squinted and tried to peer through the rain-blurred windshield, muttering curses. The downpour on the Festiva’s roof sounded like a tinny, meth-fueled drum solo. She should have headed back from the nursing home before the storm hit, but it was the first Saturday she’d had off since she’d gotten the job six weeks ago. Aunt Millie had been so happy to see her that it was worth the hour-long drive. Unfortunately it was already after midnight. And now, with the rain, she wouldn’t get home until 2 am, if she was lucky--and she had to cover Carolyn’s 6 am shift, as well as her own third-shift slot tomorrow night. And Mr. Padilla had fits if she punched in any later than 10 minutes till.

Damn, it was coming down hard. She could barely see the center line. The next place she saw with its Open sign lit, she’d stop for a few minutes even if it was a dive, and see if the rain would let up a little. It would have been safer to have headed north from Pleasant Meadows to Glencott, and pick up the state highway there, but at the time, she’d thought the extra half-hour drive wasn’t worth it. She squinted again--were those lights, wavering off through the trees to the right?--and almost missed the dark shape leaping into the periphery of her headlights.

There was a thump, and the little car quivered. Oh God, she’d hit it--or else it had hit the side of the car. Zanna swerved belatedly, braked hard as the Festiva’s balding tires fishtailed, and pulled off on what she hoped was the shoulder. She opened the car door and stepped out into the torrent.

She crept cautiously down the blacktop, hoping guiltily that the animal would be dead if it wasn’t okay. She couldn’t afford any kind of vet bill! The rain was pouring down the back of her neck and already beginning to soak the legs of her jeans.

A roll of thunder swept through the clouds, but the lightning that preceded it had been too faint to see by. She was getting completely soaked; if she didn’t see it within the next few yards, she’d give up and assume it had picked itself up and run off.

The next lightning flash was a coruscating, jagged line straight down from the heavens to a tree that seemed far too close. It blinded her momentarily--but in the initial glow, she had seen the black, unmoving lump lying in the road just ahead. She stopped in consternation, and then heard a faint whimper. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and knelt, unmindful of the puddles, to examine the animal--coyote? It couldn't be a wolf; she was pretty sure there weren't any left in the state.

She ran her fingers cautiously over its side. It whined softly, but didn’t growl. A collar on its neck: a dog, then; a fairly large, shaggy dog.

“I’ll be right back, puppy.” She went to turn the car around.

By the light of the low beams, she examined the dog more carefully. It was very large, dark and German-shepherdish; she might have mistaken it for a wolf if it hadn’t been for the collar. Him, not it; the dog was male, and not neutered, by all appearances. No wonder he was running around in the middle of the night. She couldn’t find any obvious wound, but the dog yelped when she experimentally moved one hind leg. Hip, or something. How could she put the dog in the car without hurting him? She looked for a tag on the collar--maybe she could put the whole problem in the owner’s lap. No tags. Crap. The hair was worn away around the collar, bare raw skin showing beneath. He’d obviously been tied up somewhere until recently, rather than running wild.

She brought the car up level with the dog, opened the door, and folded the seat forward. Why couldn’t the car have been a four-door? Getting the dog out at the vet’s would be worse. Please don’t bite me. She reached carefully under the dog just behind the shoulders and started to lift him up. Even through the thick, wet fur, she could feel his ribs, and he was much less heavy than he should have been. His owners don’t deserve to get him back, Zanna decided. He struggled briefly and moaned, but let her heave him onto the floor of the back seat. His hind legs flailed--at least his back probably wasn’t broken. She squelched into the seat and swung the Festiva back around. At least there were few other cars on the road to worry about this time of night.

Except for three dark matching SUVs that pulled out of a stone-pillared, gated drive one after the other, half a mile ahead of where she’d hit the dog. They streaked past her, tail-lights rapidly disappearing in her rear-view mirror. Probably going home from somebody’s fancy Saturday-night party--or more likely, at the speed they were going, headed for the next one.

#

There was only one emergency veterinary clinic in Baylesville, and she’d heard it charged the earth. She didn’t have a choice. At this rate, I might as well not go to bed. Heck, she’d be lucky not to be late to work. She’d be lucky not to get fired. There are probably other convenience stores that would hire just about any warm body, but not close enough to walk to, once the Festiva bites the dust.

The rain had stopped by the time she reached the clinic, steam rising from the deserted parking lot. “I’ll be right back, doggie.” A tall black woman who looked no more than forty years old, but with greying, close-cropped curls, answered the buzzer. “Is the vet here? And could somebody help me carry in th ... m-my dog?”

The woman regarded her, expressionlessly. “I am Doctor Taylor. I’m the only staff member here, missy. What is the matter with your dog?”

Great. Now she’d managed to offend the vet. “Um, I ... he got hit by a car. I think his leg’s hurt. He let me drag him into the car, but he doesn’t want to get up.”

The vet’s elegant eyebrows rose. “It would have been better not to move him like that.”

“Well, I couldn’t leave him lying in the middle of the highway,” Zanna said shortly.

The vet sighed, and rubbed her forehead with the back of one hand. She looks almost as tired as I feel. It can’t be fun working third shift here, either, even for a lot better money than what the Pit Stoppe pays, Zanna thought.

“Let’s go.” Dr. Taylor picked up the rubber mat from in front of the doorway. “We’ll try to get him on this; it’ll make moving him easier, and less likely to injure him.” She snorted when she saw the dog wedged into the back of Zanna’s car. “This is gonna be like getting a sardine out of a can. I should've grabbed a muzzle,” she grumbled. She bent over, gently palpating the dog’s body. A long pink tongue licked her wrist as she moved to his head and neck, and the tail thumped, twice. She snorted again, but her expression softened, and she patted his head. “Guess we won’t need the muzzle.”

She draped the rug over the edge of the door opening and, with Zanna’s help, carefully slid the dog out of the car. They each picked up an end and carried him into the building. “You gonna lock that?” Dr. Taylor jerked a thumb toward the dilapidated yellow Festiva.

“Not much point,” Zanna muttered. Both door panels were rusted through at the bottom, a recent hit-and-run hadn’t done the rear bumper any good, and the radio/CD player had been ripped out long ago.

Another snort, but the vet forbore from commenting. Together they heaved the mat up onto the examining table. “I ... I don’t have much money right now,” said Zanna in a low voice. “I’ve got a job,” she hoped it would still be true after today, “and I can make regular payments.”

“No credit card?” The vet looked at her keenly.

“No.” Not easy with only a high-school diploma, and not after what happened with Mom and Langford, the low-life creep.

The eyebrows rose again. A sigh. “I’ll try to keep it down. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” She put on a stethoscope, moving the disk with an abstracted expression. “His heart and lungs seem all right. Are his shots up to date?”

“Um ... he was my brother’s dog, so I’m not sure,” Zanna improvised wildly. “I haven’t had him very long.”

The vet lifted the dog’s head and examined the collar carefully. It was heavy, dark leather, thick enough to hobble an elephant, with blackening metal studs in a pattern suggesting weirdly runic writing. “Somebody has macho delusions,” she murmured, carefully raising the collar to check beneath it. “This is giving him sores. Get him a plain nylon collar that won’t irritate his skin, if you have to tie him. You should get tags, too, in case he gets lost or another car hits him, or in case he bites someone. You wouldn’t believe how much more grief that’ll be without proof of a current rabies vaccination.”

“Right.” Zanna sighed internally. Yet more expenses. Maybe she should just take him to the Humane Society in the morning, and let them deal with the rest of it.

“He’ll need a tetanus booster right now, for sure,” the vet added darkly, as she palpated his hind legs. “He’s got a deep scrape on this leg, and ...” the dog yelped, “it looks like he got hit here.” She gently pushed at the opposite hip. “Could be just a bad bruise; could be a fracture, but at least I can’t feel movement in the femur .... That’s odd.” She brought her hand away, glove streaked with clotting blood. “He’s got a decent puncture wound as well; in fact ... I think this is from a bullet. If he were human, I’d have to report it to the police--good thing he’s a dog.” She chuckled at the joke. “Actually, this can’t be from getting shot; whatever did this burnt him.” She indicated the charring on the edge of the circular, bloody hole. There was a faint odor of burnt fur and meat overlying the Eau de Wet Dog. “Whatever caused this, he’s lucky: it only went into the big muscle in his butt, and it seems to have gone cleanly all the way through. You might not want to tell him ‘Sit’ for a while, but there isn’t likely to be permanent damage, as long as he doesn’t get an infection. He’ll need to be on antibiotics for a couple of weeks. He’s underweight, also; make sure you feed him better than your brother did.”

Cleaning and bandaging the wounds on his legs took at least twenty minutes. Zanna handed the vet items she asked for, helped move the dog into position, and anxiously glanced at her watch when the vet was looking the other way. She stroked the dog’s fuzzy ears while the vet dealt with his injuries. The dog licked her hands when he could reach them, and thumped his tail weakly on the stainless tabletop whenever he saw her looking at him. I guess I won’t take you to the Humane Society just yet.

“That’s as cleaned up as we’re gonna get. Let’s see if he can stand.” The vet picked up the dog, grunting with the effort, and carefully lowered him to the floor.

He stood shakily, but on all fours. “Can you walk, hmm?” Dr. Taylor took a dog biscuit from a jar and held it out. “Come and get it, fella.” The dog stepped toward her, swaying a little and limping badly on the hind leg that had been pierced, but he managed to stay upright. He delicately took the treat from her hand, crunched once, and it was gone.

“Well, he seems to be feeling better.” She frowned. “He might have had a concussion, and ideally we should X-ray that leg, but ... hell with it. The business manager won’t like this, but he doesn’t have to know. We’ll keep our fingers crossed on the possibility of a fracture. Try to keep him from jumping around--and if he stops putting weight on it, then he’ll definitely need to be seen again.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot, Dr. Taylor!” Zanna said with relief.

When Dr. Taylor brought out the hypodermic, she felt the dog tense. That’s funny; she thought, how does he know what a syringe is for? “There, there, big guy; it’s just your tetanus shot,” she murmured, massaging the back of his neck, and she felt him relax again, only twitching slightly as the needle went in.

“Let me write this up, and you can take him home.” She held the door for Zanna as the dog hobbled out of the examining room. “Take it easy, buddy. What’s his name?” She moved to the front counter and poked at the keyboard. The computer screen lit up. “Actually, you’d better give me your name first. Unless you can get your brother to foot the bill?” She raised the eyebrows again.

Right: my imaginary brother will take care of everything. “Zanna--Suzanna Cottrell. And the dog’s name is ...” she ransacked her brain desperately, “... Buddy, actually.”

“O-o-ka-ay.” Dr. Taylor's lips quirked.

Was that sarcasm? Zanna provided the rest of the information for “Buddy’s” files.

“How do you want to pay for this? You can put something down, right?”

Biting her lip, Zanna pulled out her wallet and debit card. There was probably enough ramen and oatmeal to stretch till Friday. “I can pay ten in cash, and twenty on the debit card. I can mail you a check every Friday--wait! Oh, shoot ... I’ve got to get him dog food....”

Dr. Taylor’s mouth twisted expressively. “Tell you what. Pay the twenty on the debit card. I’ll put a bag of the dog food we carry here on the bill. It’s expensive, but it’s good for promoting healing, and you won’t find much open this time of night. The bill’s gonna be ...” she stabbed at the keyboard, “one-eighty-five. If you pay twenty now, can you send fifty-five a month? Three months won’t be worth them hassling you--as long as you send those checks.” She looked up. “I'll tell them I know you, and you're good for it. Don't go making a liar out of me.”

Zanna mentally calculated income versus outgo, looking at the clock. 4:30; she should make work on time, so the job was safe. If she could start walking to work right away, save the gas--maybe Mr. Padilla would let the dog sleep behind the counter? There’d been a holdup again at the west side store. “Yeah. Yes, I can do that ... thanks.” She handed over the debit card.

“You might want to think about getting him neutered one of these days, after he’s better. Have a safe drive.” Dr. Taylor yawned as she closed and locked the clinic door, giving Zanna a half-hearted wave as she turned away.

* * *

It had been a week since the accident. Buddy had been beautifully behaved in the store, lying or sitting quietly behind the counter, but the comforter was getting so disgusting she couldn’t stand it. He’d been good about going on the paper, too, or outside when he had the opportunity, but if he didn’t get a bath, she’d suffocate--and everybody in the building would know she had a dog, from the smell. The wounds had scabbed over and didn’t look infected, but weren’t really healing, either. She hoped getting them wet was safe, but the doggy reek was unbearable. Buddy was still staggering a little, and definitely not bouncy. She felt guilty about the sores under his collar, which seemed to be getting worse. She’d bought a nylon web collar and leash (purple!) but hadn’t wanted to put on the new collar until he was clean.

The easiest way is probably just to get in the tub with him, Zanna thought. I don’t have to worry about being naked in front of a dog. She’d gotten a couple of old beach towels at Goodwill, along with another comforter. She would run the old one and everything else in the apartment that could be washed through the laundry--with bleach--as soon as she had Buddy bathed.

Zanna set out the towels beforehand, and brought the bottle of dish soap into the bathroom. If I wash him with the detergent first, and then with my shampoo ... he’ll probably shake himself everywhere. Good thing the tub has an enclosure all the way around. “Here, Buddy; bath time!” she said brightly.

He came toward her obediently, looking resigned, and hopped clumsily into the tub. She slid the glass door shut, stripped off her own clothes, and got in the tub compartment with him. She turned on the faucet, waiting for the water to get up to temperature before flipping on the shower. Better not get the old collar wet. She unbuckled it, twisted to reach over the enclosure wall to drop it on the floor, and turned back around.

Beneath the showerhead, a dark-haired naked man stood inside the tub with her.

She stood frozen, momentarily paralyzed with horror. A strangled scream burst from her lips as she leapt to yank at the sliding glass door. Her feet slid out from under her on the slippery tub enamel. Writhing in panic, she landed flat on her back, and only her flailing arms kept her from smacking her head a lot harder on the end of the tub.

The man said hurriedly, “Look, this is not what you think.” He had a slight, unidentifiable foreign accent. He bent over and extended a hand to help her up, but she flinched away. He seemed to be trying to look everywhere but at her. His eyes fell on the pink scrubbie pouf dangling from the soap holder. He grabbed it and held it strategically in front of his crotch. “I will not hurt you, okay? If I can just get some clothes, I will go away and never bother you again.”

“Clothes?” Zanna said. This was starting to get confusing as well as terrifying. “Did-didn’t you have them when you came in?” And omigod, what had happened to Buddy? “Buddy! Buddy! Where’s my dog?” she shouted, sitting up fiercely, “What did you do with him?”

“Ah ... I can explain!” the man said. He had the panicky, sheepish look of the junior-high kids at The Pit who didn’t realize she’d been watching them stuff their pockets with candy bars--until she intercepted them on the way out with an itemized total.

He was young-looking, near her age; muscular but scrawny. He had a badly skinned and gashed knee, assorted bruises, and an ugly red rash spreading from around his neck. Oh, crap. Don’t let him give me an STD on top of everything else!

He didn’t seem intent on rape, however. He had backed into the faucet end of the tub enclosure as far as he could go, and kept trying to reposition the pink scrubbie. No weapon, either--unless she counted whatever the scrubbie was hiding. The odor of wet dog still permeated the steamy air, and the ingratiating expression in his brown eyes reminded her of ... “Buddy?” she whispered, incredulous. He smiled weakly back.

* * *

His name was Staros, he said. His parents were from Bulgaria, but he had been born in the U.S. Born as what? A puppy? she thought, but let him keep talking. “I will go out and get work, and repay you back for all your ... trouble,” he said, loftily waving a hand to encompass the shabby efficiency apartment, “but in the interim ...” he looked down at her old chenille bathrobe, which had been the only garment she owned that would fit him, “I must get clothing to get employment. I cannot get a job as a dog.” He looked at her pleadingly.

“If you were born here, don’t you have relatives you could call?” I wonder if I can return the collar and leash. No wonder he hardly touched the dog food. Maybe I can eat it if I mix it with ramen.

“No. No more close family. There is ... much danger. Sorry to involve you. I will go away as soon as I have money. But for money, I must have a job, and for a job, I must have clothes.”

“I can go to Goodwill and get you a pair of jeans and a shirt.” Zanna mentally recalculated her checking-account balance. “And a pair of sneakers or something. I bet Mr. Padilla would hire you--unless you meant a good job? You’d better work at the Pit until you can afford a suit, if that’s the kind of job you meant. In fact,” considering that she’d been sharing a bed with him for the last week! “if you can get first or second shift, we can rotate the sleep schedule. The bed’s too small for two people.” She felt herself blushing. I just don’t want him to disappear before he’s paid me back.

“You think he would hire me? I have no identification documents.”

“Can’t you get replacements? If you were born here, you can send for your birth certificate, right?”

“That would be ... difficult.” He had a harried expression. “No.”

“We’ll--I’ll talk to Mr. Padilla. He’s about ready to hire you as a dog, anyway.” Buddy had proved invaluable in following suspicious characters around the store, then nudging whatever pockets they’d tried to slip merchandise into with his nose. None of the shoplifters had seemed to want to argue or bluster it out with a huge, shaggy dog staring them down. “Er ... can you still turn into a dog?”

“Oh, yes. The trick is to be able to turn back to human. With silver, I cannot--and it burns.” Zanna thought guiltily of the week he’d spent in the collar. “The wound in my gluteus maximus--” Zanna stared at him, mystified, “--my buttocks, that was a silver bullet.”

“What ... why were you being shot at?”

“A long-standing enmity.” His gaze seemed to focus on something out beyond the the apartment walls. “I was a prisoner. For ... an eternity. I escaped.”

* * *

Staros had no trouble getting a first-shift slot at the Pit “Sure! He is friend of yours, Zah-nah: yes,” while Buddy kept his official position on third shift. The change was ... weird. There would be a moment in which his shape--dog or human--blurred to an amorphous form that made her eyes strain to focus, unsuccessfully, and then Staros or Buddy would be standing there, looking at her inquisitively, as if nothing had happened. Clothes were an inconvenient obstacle for the human-to-dog change, and an impossibility for dog-to-human; Zanna had become habituated to seeing him naked on a regular basis. And serves you right for constantly ogling me when I thought you were a dog.

Buddy would come in at Zanna’s side, and snooze behind the counter in between regular rounds prowling the store. Mr. Padilla had suggested that Buddy could come in with Staros, too--it had luckily occurred to Zanna to explain that Buddy didn’t listen to Staros unless she was there. She had thought of saying that Staros was allergic to dogs, but since the address on the application was the same as hers, that would have raised more questions. She would bring Staros’s clothes in and hang them in the storeroom, then surreptitiously let Buddy in to change before the beginning of his shift.

What was more problematic was explaining that Staros had to be paid under the counter. Mr. Padilla sighed. “I understand, I understand. You living together?” His fluffy eyebrows met in the middle.

“Yes, but we’re--we’re just roommates, until he gets enough money to get his own place.”

“Ah. Of course, of course.” He looked up at the ceiling. “How about I pay you? Like for double shift. Then you pay him--after you take what he owe you.” He beamed at her.

#

Staros seemed relieved to have her deal with the money. He was nervous at the idea of keeping it in her checking account, but finally acquiesced, after carefully reading the fine print about the FDIC insurance in the credit-union brochure. Where has he been, to not know about banks? Zanna wondered.

He was evasive when she attempted to pin him down about his history and his age. He looked just barely old enough not to get carded in bars--she was relieved that he showed no interest in visiting them--which would make him a few years older than she was. She’d moved out of her mom’s house the week after graduating from high school, but she wouldn’t turn nineteen until February. “Why were you in that collar, anyway? And what do you mean, escaped? There were some SUVs that pulled out of some fancy estate just past where I hit you--were they looking for you? Is there any chance those people can ... find you?” Track you down?

“I do not believe they can find me. The ... scent would have been thrown off when you took me into your car. Do not worry; it is better for you not to know these things. I will be gone soon, once you have been repaid, and then there is no possible connection.”

He had been punctiliously polite as a human, warning her when he stripped to change to dog form--Buddy was more lackadaisical about it--and since he slept at the store, in the enormous tartan-plaid doggie bed that Mr. Padilla had brought in one day, grinning like a deranged Santa, and she slept while he worked, there was little occasion for any intimacy.

His appetite was voracious; he constantly apologized for the amount of food he consumed, even though he insisted on paying for all of it. Shape-changing apparently burned up a lot of calories. He'd taken over the both the grocery-shopping and the cooking, after surveying the limited contents of her kitchenette in dismayed silence.

“We’ve still got lots of dog food left,” Zanna said wickedly. “We should be able to live on that bag for at least two weeks. ‘Scientifically-calibrated nutritional content,’ yummy!”

“It was too long ... with no human food. Worse than this Science Diet--” his nose wrinkled, “but I have had enough animal feed to last me an eternity. Tonight, cabbage soup, chicken cacciatore, and filbert--hazelnut, that is--torte.”

Cabbage soup ... mmmm. The first time he’d said he was making it, she’d envisioned watery coleslaw, but it had proved to be a richly flavored beef-based stew, loaded with paprika and carrots and onions as well as red cabbage.

Staros had regained his strength quickly. He adored pizza, too, and insisted on taking her to Amore-by-the-Slice on what he called a date at least once a week, where he would put away prodigious quantities. “There are so many toppings!” he said, eyes round.

Zanna told herself that the warm glow of happiness she felt was due to not being stressed about money, as well as undoubtedly better nutrition. I’ll never be able to cook like that once he leaves. Maybe I can start taking vitamins, or something. Mr. Padilla is going to be sick about losing Buddy on third shift.

* * *

“Your friend who works,” said Mr. Padilla. “I saw you in pizza place, the other night. Where he from?”

Zanna felt bewildered. Mr. Padilla had never tried to hit on her, so far--surely he wasn’t jealous? “His parents were refugees ... from Bulgaria.” It had the advantage of being almost true--as long as no one asked for dates.

“I am immigrant, also,” Mr. Padilla announced proudly.

With that accent? No shit, Sherlock, Zanna thought.

“It can be trouble sometimes, getting with ID papers. He seem like nice young man. He need help, tell me.” Mr. Padilla gave her an avuncular pat on the arm and waddled off.

#

Now that it was late September there were a lot fewer teenagers engaging in amateur shoplifting with school in session, and Buddy could snooze for longer, uninterrupted stretches. He was sound asleep and dreaming--she assumed he was dreaming; his legs were twitching and he occasionally whined quietly--when two kids no older than she was came in from the rainy night, pale and mean-looking. The pudgy one seemed to be under the other’s thumb: when the one holding the pistol gestured briefly, he pulled out a plastic bag and began dumping chocolate, nuts, and snack food packages into it. “Safe,” said the one with the gun, pointing it straight between Zanna’s eyes.

Fear definitely slowed things down. It took Zanna a minute to figure out he was talking about the squat metal behemoth under the counter, and not her circumstances--unsafe was more like it. “I can’t open it! They never let employees have access.”

The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “You better hope there’s at least a hundred in the drawer, then, bitch.”

Zanna felt ill. There was a sign prominently displayed on the counter, “Cashier has no more than $20.00.”

“I’m sorry ...” She was desperately searching for words that wouldn’t anger him into shooting her, when she heard a sneeze from down by her feet. Buddy, waking up. The kid with the gun heard it too.

“What’s that shit?” He moved around to look behind the counter, keeping the gun pointed at her. Buddy was stretching and yawning when he and the gunman caught sight of each other simultaneously.

“You keep ‘im offa me!” His gun began wavering indecisively between Zanna and the dog. Buddy began slowly rising to his feet, hackles bristling, as if he were being lifted by invisible marionette strings. Now the gun pivoted to focus on Buddy. “I’ll shoot ‘im! You make ‘im stop!”

Buddy leapt, without a sound. The pistol fired, echoing on and on in Zanna’s head. She saw the bullet come out through Buddy’s back, a fine spray of blood with it. The floor-to-ceiling glass panel behind him shattered and came down in a cascade of noise.

Buddy’s impact sent the gunman sprawling back against an end display, candy bars and snack packets flying in all directions. The gun spun from his hand and hit the floor. It slid to a stop near the beer cooler. The kid was whimpering, a high, feline scream; Buddy had him by the throat. The other robber was edging toward the cooler, his eyes on the gun. When Zanna quickly snatched it up, his nerve broke and he ran for the door. She was happy to see him go.

An ominous, feral rumble was coming from Buddy. How badly was he hurt? The kid was making strangling noises. “Buddy, I’ve got the gun. Buddy! Get off.” She pointed the gun at the boy on the floor, hoping he would stay put--she didn’t think she could bring herself to pull the trigger. “If you move--if you even think of trying to get up, I’ll tell my dog to rip your throat out,” she said, holding the gun trained on him in one shaking hand and dialing 911 with the other.

Once the dispatcher had assured her the police were on their way, Buddy came back to her side, still growling softly. She began frantically running the fingers of her free hand through his coat, but could find no blood, no wound. She was relieved; she would have sworn the bullet had passed right through him. The gunman lay on the floor, pale and still, but breathing raggedly. She spoke quietly to Buddy. “I’m going to let you out of here. The living room window is open; can you get in okay?” He gave a soft woof, and went to stand at the door. She opened it, keeping the gun aimed at the man on the floor. Buddy did not step through until they heard the wail of approaching squad cars.

By the time the police arrived, sirens blaring, Buddy was nowhere to be seen. They focused on removing the gunman, his weapon, and getting a description of the second perp, which Zanna was happy to provide. If he doesn’t mention Buddy, I won’t, she thought.

“Good. Better no fuss with police.” He sent her home as soon as the police were through, acting as if he thought she might collapse on the spot.

“I’m fine; I can drive,” Zanna insisted. “But I want to make sure Buddy’s all right.”

“Yes, yes; good dog. Wonderful dog! You go.”