The Risk/Benefit Equation

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw movement near the edge of the tree line. He stood still in the sweltering noontime sun, waiting, watching, his bologna sandwich dangling from his left hand.

Hope delivered her baby the night Ray and Leo became battle buddies. She was home on maternity leave. But, still, she packed sandwiches. “For goodness’s sake,” he argued, “I am a grown man and can make my lunch if I want to.”

“But that’s the point,” his sister returned, her ten-pound son in her arms, facing him, all softness and folds and wide nascent eyes. “If I left it up to you, you wouldn’t eat. I can’t have you falling into a vat of Checker’s Raisin Chutney because your blood sugar is too low.”

She was right. If not for his sister’s sandwiches, he would skip lunch. And the only reason he ate those was because of the guilt. If Hope made them, he would eat them.

A rich copper shadow rippled through the dense foliage. Ray took a few steps forward, and the movement stopped. He ripped his sandwich down the middle and held half aloft. A russet nose poked through the brush. It quivered, discerning the scent of lunch meat from pickled beets. Soft long ears framed golden eyes which fixed, not on the sandwich as expected, but directly on Ray as if trying to solve the risk-benefit equation before advancing. As she took one more step into the light, Ray could see the lightly built dog's shiny skin pulled tautly, revealing the stark outline of ribs through her short hair.

“Oh, baby girl, you need this way more than I do.” Not wanting to startle the skittish creature, Ray placed both halves of the sandwich on the ground and slowly backed away.