The moon is up. My father calls. Like the best dog whistler, he summons me in a voice so high, only I can hear. The fog in my head has only recently cleared. But I must go. I want to deny him, but how does one resist?
Still, if I cannot stop myself, I can be slow about going there. I have been bathed, put oil in my hair, brushed my teeth. I may be my father’s hound, but I will not misrepresent myself. My human part longs to be clean of him, and free. He will hate that I am late, that I am clean, that my heart still beats in its human tempo. But it is the only small rebellion I can make.
I take what I need. What was given me in love: the silver pipe from my mother’s hand, the stone from my grandmother’s—or as near a grandmother as I shall ever get. She has fed me, cleaned me, kept me through the dark times. I owe her, but can only repay her in silence.
And then I go out the door, down the stairs. I bid no one good-bye, for I dare not intermix their lives with mine. This danger, this horror is all my own. My father waits in the green park.
The green park!
I will not go to him. I cannot. I will not betray my own. Not again. Not as I did my mother. And sitting down on the stoop, I start to weep, not the tears of a dog. Dogs do not cry. But humans do. Even boys, though we try not to let anyone see.