chapter four

 

 

“You think she’ll go for it?”

“I wouldn’t even ask. That’s R, by the way.”

“C’mon, Gordo, man—it’s fucking freshman comp. She’s got to know no one gives a shit. Like it matters if I get an A or a D. Why can’t she just fudge a little for her boyfriend’s best bud?”

Gordon dribbled the ball a little harder. He still didn’t know if John-Mark was joking or not.

“Because she’s a great teacher and cares about her students.”

“Well she can’t care too much about rules if she’s dating you.”

“I want her to keep dating me too. That’s R.” Gordon shot the ball to John-Mark in a chest pass. They were in Westervelt’s small gym alone, shooting around after practice. John-Mark had suggested his own bitter variation of HORSE, which surprised Gordon since it seemed like middle school shit. But as they reached W-H-O-R- with John-Mark talking about Amber on every shot, Gordon got queasy. He was only too aware John-Mark had signed up for her freshman comp class, which could actually be taken at any time before graduating. Despising both reading and writing, John-Mark had pushed it off to the start of their junior year. He probably would have left it for his senior year, except he discovered Gordon was dating his potential teacher.

He put his hands on his hips and looked down, waiting for John-Mark’s shot. Why did he have to be a dumbass and tell John-Mark what was up? John-Mark of course had passed the info on to the whole team. Knowing those guys, it was a miracle half the squad hadn’t tried to sign up for the class under John-Mark’s exact assumptions.

They were already a month into the fall semester. He’d assured Amber no one on the team knew they were dating and was relieved to hear John-Mark acted fine, even respectable in class. It figured he was just biding his time, waiting to suggest a little nepotism. Apparently the time was now.

John-Mark was taking forever on his shot. Gordon laced his fingers across the top of his head and watched him shoot and miss. John-Mark couldn’t hit for shit outside of the paint and Gordon had put up a twenty-three footer on him. John-Mark’s ugly, line-drive shot ricocheted off the front of the rim. Gordon went after it.

“Actually,” he said as he got the ball, “I want her to marry me.”

John-Mark smirked.

“What?” Gordon said with a laugh.

“What?” John-Mark mocked. “All these hot chicks our age, and you go for a teacher.”

“She’s not even ten years older than us.”

“Hey, that’s cool. I guess your cradle robs itself.”

Gordon laughed again and dribbled, though the unusual edge in John-Mark’s tone kept him tense. “I love her. She’s passionate. She’s going places. You and me will probably be garbage men or something and she’ll be chair of the English department at Harvard in five years.”

“Gordo, you’re whipped hard. I fall asleep in her class every day. She’s a pretty sad teacher.”

“What’s sad is a junior taking freshman comp.”

“I just figured—”

“You figured since I’m dating Amber, I could just tell her to give you an A. Since you and I are such great pals, right?”

John-Mark laughed and shook his head. “Give me the ball if you aren’t going to shoot it.”

Gordon gave the ball an exaggerated bounce and loped toward half-court. Maybe John-Mark was just fucking with him. The simple fact was they were best friends despite any number of annoying quirks in John-Mark’s personality. Now that he was spending most nights at Amber’s instead of their dorm room, he happened to notice those quirks a little better.

He stood on the stylized W of the Westervelt logo and turned to the basket.

“I’ve got E for you right here.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

He shot—and made it. Son of a bitch! Gordon jumped up and down, whooping it up as John-Mark shook his head and ran his tongue around the inside of his lower lip.

“Luck.”

“Love. I’m inspired by love,” said Gordon.

“Too bad you couldn’t make that prayer you threw up against UCCD last year,” John-Mark said, coming toward him.

Gordon didn’t care about the taunt. He hooted again and said, “Haters gonna hate, bitch. Now either put that ball in the hoop or go back to blowing coach for playing time.”

“I hate blowing coach. All I ever taste is your ass.”

He gave John-Mark the ball. They were both laughing. Suddenly Gordon felt very good hanging out with John-Mark like this, and could let the tension between them over Amber slide. Maybe the weirdness that had been between them this semester was about to end. They weren’t really roommates anymore except on paper. He lived with Amber now, an arrangement she’d deemed out of the question at first. That had disappointed him, but he’d accepted it, and the summer semester had melted her resistance bit by bit. An occasional overnight stay Friday or Saturday soon became a full weekend, then half a week, then Sunday to Sunday. Her teaching schedule was light and he was only taking two classes. Since the end of June, Gordon had spent less than twenty days in the dorm.

The last two years had taught him to hate campus in the summertime anyway. The departure of all his friends reminded him he was a townie. The dorms were boring with most people gone, and he had to work to find excuses not to go home more often. John-Mark always spent the summer in Los Angeles with his parents. He had a girlfriend down there and last year they did so much stuff together Gordon hadn’t got a single message from him the whole summer. This year had been different. About two weeks into the break, John-Mark started calling and texting. A lot. He seemed lonely but afraid to admit it. There were invites to come down and hang out. He’d even suggested a camping trip. It seemed absurd.

Gordon had been too wrapped up in Amber to spare much thought for John-Mark. The handful of times they did talk, the conversations were so short that nothing got said. He found out John-Mark had returned two weeks before the fall semester when he stopped off at the dorm room for a shirt he’d forgotten to move over to Amber’s place. Finding him there was kind of a shock. In the past, John-Mark never came back until a day or two before classes started. But there he was, stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. They caught up—a little. John-Mark’s depression was obvious, and eventually he told Gordon why. His parents were divorcing. His girl in Los Angeles broke up with him. To top it off, he’d gotten into a car accident—nothing major, but his neck was a little fucked up, and he needed a chiropractor to nail down the problem before practice started. His summer sounded like it had been total hell.

“You should have called me when you got in, man,” Gordon had said. “I didn’t know.”

“Where the fuck have you been? Where’s all your shit?”

His internal wrestling over whether to tell John-Mark about Amber lasted less than two minutes. He wished he could say he was caught off-guard by the situation and told John-Mark the truth because he couldn’t think of a lie. That was part of it; but another part of him wanted to boast. But more than anything was the fact he felt happy, obnoxiously happy, and he wanted to tell his buddy the reason why. He figured John-Mark would be pumped for him. And he seemed to be for a few minutes. When Gordon said he planned to keep staying at Amber’s, though, John-Mark quit smiling and turned away.

This reaction completely threw Gordon, who said, “What’s wrong, dude?”

“Nothing.”

“I...just figured you’d like having the room to yourself. You might set a record for all the tail it’d let you get.”

Gordon wasn’t joking. John-Mark had no trouble getting girls. Chicks loved his tall, muscular frame; they were all over him until he opened his mouth and started talking, and even that only weeded out about a quarter of the women willing to go down on him. The bottom line was John-Mark was a player, and Gordon saw moving out as giving him room to play. John-Mark wasn’t thinking straight if he didn’t see the advantages.

At last he’d said, “Yeah. Thanks for thinking of me, man.”

They’d both let it drop after that. John-Mark hadn’t even mentioned Amber again until tonight.

“Hey, Gordo,” John-Mark said, dribbling the ball. Gordon blinked back to the present and looked up. John-Mark was standing on the W and taking aim. “Watch me nail this. You’re going to be stunned.” He lined up his shot and released...

“E,” Gordon said as the ball fell a foot shy of the rim. He came over and gave John-Mark’s shoulder a light, better luck next time pat.

“Prick.”

“C’mon, man,” he said, walking away. “Nice game of WHORE. Next time just change it to HO. Same outcome in five minutes and we’d be chowing down on some tacos right now. Let’s go. I’ll buy.”

He heard the basketball slam super hard. Gordon turned around, shocked to see John-Mark looking so pissed off.

“Ho’s a good name for the taco you’re munching on.”

Gordon walked back to him, tension knotting in the back of his neck. “Dude, what’s up? Did I do something?”

“Fuck yeah you did.”

“What?”

“You know what. All I’m asking for is a little favor.”

“I can’t believe you. Listen to yourself.”

“I am. I hear everything I say.”

“Man, go fuck yourself. It’s taken Amber forever to not be completely paranoid about all this. Can you imagine how she’d feel if I was pushing her to give my friend a good grade?”

John-Mark answered with a large, goofy smile. “So don’t let her think it. Just be smooth. Talk me up. Tell her how you think I’m a super good writer. If her first reaction is to give me a C, she’ll remember all that you’ve said and doubt her judgment.”

Gordon laughed. “What are you, Hannibal Lecter here? You’re joking, right?”

“What do you even have in common with her, anyway? I’ve been trying to figure that out. I mean sure, use her to kennel Shiloh, but—”

“John-Mark, I’m seriously about to kick your ass.”

John-Mark raised his hands as if he couldn’t imagine how he’d caused an offense. “Don’t get me wrong, Shiloh’s a cool dog. And I got respect for any animal that can blow itself. Since we can’t, we’re stuck with dating bitches like Amber.”

“Amber’s not a bitch.

“Whatever, man,” John-Mark said.

Gordon just stood there. What the fuck was happening? It was like their friendship had just suddenly exploded in front of him, and he still didn’t know if John-Mark was serious. Not knowing what else to say, he turned to go. He heard John-Mark start to dribble the ball hard.

Without changing, Gordon left the gym and jogged back to Amber’s apartment. His legs felt lifeless to him, disconnected from his torso. As he ran, he imagined John-Mark blackmailing Amber. The idea stunned him, and he felt ashamed he could even picture his best friend doing something like that over anything, much less something as trivial as a grade in a class he didn’t give a damn about. But John-Mark was being...strange. Like getting dumped had activated some buried mean streak in him.

Oh God, he thought, why in the hell did I ever tell him I was dating her?

When he got about half a block from their place, Gordon slowed to a walk. He wished he had Shiloh with him; he seemed to think better with the dog around. Should he even tell Amber what John-Mark wanted? It seemed only fair to warn her, but he also knew she’d go sleepless if he did.

He wasn’t sworn to absolute secrecy about his relationship, but he knew better than to advertise. Even now, Amber still acted really stiff around him in public. Her smile said just friends. At private parties with her friends, she was way more revealing, even proprietary, but if they were eating out, say, anywhere near campus, Gordon felt like he was meant to pretend they’d just finished a tutoring session instead of pounding the sheets. When all the guys on the team had gotten back in late August and wanted to party, Gordon hadn’t been able to get her to come out. And he found he hated being without her, so he’d started to just stay in and watch a movie with her or whatever. She must have sensed his disappointment, though. It was one thing to fantasize about staying at home with her before they were dating. Now that they were dating, staying in on the weekends, when the entire campus was a party scene, caused Gordon to fidget.

At last Amber relented and they did go out. They went to a bar—where Gordon preened, local celebrity that he was, because he wasn’t twenty-one but no one bothered to card him. He toned it down when he saw how annoyed Amber seemed. But it turned out to be anxiety more than annoyance. Some students had recognized her. As soon as that happened, she pushed Gordon away through body language, staring down at her phone and tapping text messages, as if she expected her real date to show up any minute. The whole thing was a disaster.

But the awkwardness was not always one sided. At her friends’ parties, he sensed his jockness distinctly, and there were passing remarks that made Gordon feel like he’d been snatched from his cradle. Then it was Amber’s turn to preen and show off the young stud she’d landed. It was in those moments when his uncertainties peaked, the fears that he knew he, as a guy, shouldn’t have: that maybe she only liked him for his looks. Someone like John-Mark would just say, “So?” and enjoy the ride. But to Gordon these moments made the years between them feel greater than they were, a gulf that expanded to include a range of emotional issues—style, self-esteem, and intelligence.

There’d even been a few times when he suddenly thought their romance was doomed. Once, the gloom overtook him in class, another time while he shot hoops alone. A third time, less than a week ago, he’d entered the apartment before she got home and been overcome with a certainty that she wanted to break up. He’d gone into the bathroom, looked the door, sat down on the toilet and actually cried in shock. It was something he’d done more than once after his mother had died, and the pain bubbled out in uncontrollable sobs. Amber was going to be like his high school girlfriend. History was going to repeat itself.

It hadn’t happened yet, though. The gloom passed quick, driven away by Amber’s easy smiles, and he forgot his doubts as he forgot bad dreams.

Reaching Amber’s duplex now, he walked through the door and found Shiloh jumping on him and barking.

“He’s been missing daddy, I guess.” Amber came out from the second bedroom, which she’d turned into an office. “I’ve walked him three times and he still has so much energy.”

“Yeah, he does,” Gordon said, grinning as he bent to let the dog lick at his sweaty face.

As it turned out Amber had some energy of her own and joined him under the water as he took a shower. She was assertive, telling him to face the wall, head under the shower jet. Gordon put his hands against the stall and moaned as she washed him, exploring and working his muscles from head to toe, her fingers and the hot water draining the tension out of him. He was almost asleep on his feet when she finished, and she laughed as he swayed while she dried him. They went straight to the bedroom. He looked at her with a drowsy gaze.

“Maybe I was missing daddy a little, too,” she said.

He gave a low chuckle and lay sprawled on his back, loving how the ceiling light made her awesome red hair vibrant even when darkened by dampness. His back arched as she straddled him and took his erection, pushing him to the limit, giving him aspirations, making him want to be great for her. His fatigue seemed to enhance rather than subdue the intensity of his orgasm. It was as if she found one last hidden spark in his body and coaxed it out, leaving him spent and ready for a delicious sleep. Then she pulled the sheet over them and snuggled up against his chest with her left hand on his stomach. Gordon felt like a cold orphan boy suddenly adopted and sheltered. Overjoyed. He didn’t think there could be a greater happiness than this, not in this world at least. It was in moments like these with her that he most believed there must be a benevolent God.

He woke with a jolt a few minutes before midnight. Amber had rolled away from him onto her side, but his sudden kick woke her as well. She blinked at him and smiled. The ceiling light was still on. They’d both teased each other about turning it off but neither had had the energy to get up. Gordon still didn’t. He put one forearm across his eyes as Amber said, “Someone turn off the sun.”

“I’ll try to train Shiloh to get the light switch. Maybe he can jump up and paw it.”

He heard the dog, who always slept on the floor at his side of the bed, stir a moment. Gordon sighed.

“You okay, honey? Did you have a bad dream?

He smiled. “My mom used to ask me that.”

“I think pretty much every mom does. I wonder if I will too, one day.”

He rolled over and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“I hope so.”

“Not so fast,” she said with a laugh. “Let’s get you graduated and me on a tenure track someplace before I plan to—God, how did your friend John-Mark put it?—have your shortie?”

“What?”

“Just something he actually wrote in an assignment. I had to look the word up. Does he actually talk like that when he’s not in class, with all that slang?”

“Sometimes.”

He was fully awake now and thinking about the end of practice. He looked at Amber and thought about being married to her, having children by her. Was John-Mark a threat to that dream? Was he more of a threat if Gordon didn’t tell Amber about what John-Mark had suggested? He swallowed.

“I have to tell you something.”

Amber listened, her expression neutral. Her fingers stroked his forearm as if to draw the words from him. He told her everything, about John-Mark’s awful summer and the weirdness between them. He finished talking staring straight up at the light. It felt like an interrogation. When he was done, she responded to the threat with a shrug. She’d factored such a possibility into her feelings from the start. Gordon sighed, amazed at her composure. This amazement was soon gone, however, as Amber revealed her true fixation.

“He sounds really possessive to me. Like he has a crush.”

“What do you mean?”

Amber propped herself up on her elbow. Her hand caressed his stomach. “You don’t think he could be gay?”

Gordon blinked. Then he laughed. A lot.

“I know you haven’t read Foucault or Klein or Judith Butler, Gordon, but if you had, you’d know he’s showing some classic signs. It’s easy to hide identity stress when you’re living so close to the object of your affections. Now that you’re removed—”

Gordon quit laughing but didn’t lose his smile. “All you English majors are perverts. It’s all about sex for you—I’m not necessarily complaining, mind you.”

“I’m just saying it explains the aggression, and why he was calling you so much.”

“He didn’t call me at all last summer. This was different. He was lonely after he got dumped. By a girl.”

“You said he has a lot of girls.”

“John-Mark’s a player. He’ll be okay once he gets a new chick.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want a chick. Maybe all the chicks are his way of compensating. Did you know Lord Byron once claimed to have slept with 250 women in one year?”

“So? Sounds like a player.”

“So Byron was gay. And miserable, conflicted. He’s the classic example of a closet case. Historically, lots of gay men have been notorious womanizers.”

Gordon fought off a surge of frustration, an urge toward sarcasm. Was Amber messing with him? He didn’t know jack shit about Lord Byron, but he was pretty sure he knew everything about John-Mark.

“So you’re saying he wants me?” He shook his head. “We’ve lived together for two years. I guarantee you he never made a move.”

“Like I said, he wouldn’t have to, especially if he was very conflicted. You were close—that was enough.”

Now Gordon screwed his face up in an expression of disgust. “Shit, you’re saying he skeeved on me from across the room, like when I was asleep? Goddamn, Amber.”

“Sexuality is a complicated thing. I’m sure you two have gotten drunk together.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? No amount of beer in the world would make me suck John-Mark’s dick.”

“Who said anything about you sucking him?”

Gordon’s mouth unhinged.

“You drink a lot, you pass out. He makes his move. It happens to women all the time.”

“You’re scary, Amber. You’re saying John-Mark got his rocks off by fondling me in my sleep?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“No,” Gordon said. “Actually, it isn’t.”

“Imagine him kneeling over you, crying because he’s so conflicted. He loves you so much but he can’t express it.” Her expression became almost distant and Gordon frowned. She was clearly revving up, starting to believe this fantasy that had come out of nowhere. “The desire is so strong; he just wants to see how you look. He raises the waistband of your boxers and peeks. But of course seeing isn’t enough. It never is. He bends over and brings his lips to your stomach and gives you the softest kiss. Then, afraid he’s done too much, he bolts back to his bed to see if you’ve reacted at all, scared you might be more conscious than you’ve let on. Imagine—”

Gordon sat up. “Uh, no! No, I really don’t want to imagine any of this. I’m done listening to you talk about John-Mark molesting me like it’s some beautiful moment. Fuck, how about I invite him over right now so you can watch him ream me?” He pushed himself off the mattress and lunged across the room for the light switch.

He settled back into the dark more confused than ever and still hearing the dreamy wonder in her voice. She’d described John-Mark groping him like she was relaying a vision. That was creepy enough, but there was something else, something new and disturbing in his mind and under his skin that also felt like a vision. It felt like an awakening, and he thought it must be the awakening of those insecurities that plagued him. Amber could give herself authority by spouting off names of French and German writers he didn’t know. What was he doing with a woman like this, so vastly more intelligent and learned? Was it just his looks that kept him in the game? Hell, maybe she was implying that he and John-Mark were at least compatible intellectually. He went to sleep feeling, against his will, the sensation of lips kissing his stomach—

—and woke from a nightmare with his hands punching toward the ceiling and a heavy, pounding panic in his mind. He gasped and looked over at Amber only to find her still asleep. Very slowly, he managed to sit and glance about the dark room. What had happened? Something awful. Within a few moments he was close to crying. Some fear and helplessness suffered in the dream were still in his chest. Was he dreaming about Mom? His body tingled with a sensation like bugs had been crawling on him.

Shiloh rose and poked his cold nose into Gordon’s leg. He barely suppressed a scream and rubbed the spot like he was scouring out a stain. Gordon sensed a bark coming and reached down to grip the dog’s muzzle.

He looked down at his body, certain someone had been touching him. He scanned about the room, half-expecting an intruder to be lurking in the corner. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Go back to sleep, he thought. It was just a dream he couldn’t even remember.

But he could remember. Lips on his stomach. Fingers caressing his legs and thighs. Disembodied fingers, floating fingers.

He squinted into the darkness, his stomach hollowed out with dread. He remembered a face. A white face, so awful in the gloom. A man’s face. And a man’s hands. Not John-Mark’s. The face was murky to him. He remembered nothing except the whiteness of the skin, and how the eyes were like two black holes.

Gordon took several deep breaths and tried to laugh off the creepy feeling. Maybe he’d gotten abducted by aliens like every other asshole in California.

He eased out of bed and walked to the door. He was starving, having not eaten a thing since practice. He turned in the hallway to look back at Amber. The limited moonlight in the room did not fall on her but he stood there staring anyway. He liked watching her sleep. Since the first night he’d ever spent with a girl, he’d discovered how much he liked waking up before them in the morning, when he could just enjoy looking at the soft architecture of their bodies, the curves that seemed to make them rest naturally on a mattress.

Above all, he enjoyed all the ways a girl’s skin could look in the early sunlight. Most of them were tanned. Amber was the palest girl he’d ever dated, and in the morning her skin was like milk that seemed suddenly and marvelously to float carnation petals. The sunlight brought out pinks and golden freckles on her arms and shoulders and breasts. She colored with the sun, came alive in a way that had a dreamy, fairytale quality to it, as if he’d just kissed Sleeping Beauty. Stupid in love, he’d think, smiling in contentment as he allowed his fingers to trace her body. Sometimes he’d even lean in close and blow softly along her torso, and the brightening pink of her skin made him feel like he was nurturing and protecting some small and threatened flame responsible for the sun’s very existence. Then came the moment when the fire sparked, and her eyes opened, and they stared at each other, both blue-eyed and healthy and happy.

Looking at her in the dark now proved very different. He thought of Amber waking up before him, gazing on his sleeping, helpless form, and groping him. Only it wasn’t Amber but someone else. He shuddered. He remembered—months ago—being touched by some gross girl he’d somehow taken to bed. He remembered the feeling of violation, so sharp and unexpected. What if Amber felt that way when he woke her up with his touch? Was he just a pervert, copping feels on sleeping women and calling it love? Did he feel guilty? Gordon turned, woozy, and slouched down the hallway toward the kitchen.

He felt sicker on every step. Reaching the living room, he had to stop and pat down his thighs and stomach, close to screaming with the sense of something crawling on him. He raked his fingernails along his skin and hair, brushing away a disturbance he knew did not exist. He could only stand still so long. Years of sports had drilled the phrase walk it off into his mind as a cure for everything, so he forced himself to move, even though the crawling sensation intensified right away. It felt like walking naked through a forest, breaking thousands of spider webs across his body along the way.

Gordon stopped in the kitchen and scratched again, rubbed at his flesh until his skin burned. What in hell did he dream about? He opened the refrigerator door and winced, blinded a moment by the burst of light. As he looked down, Gordon’s mouth gaped as he saw white fingers, hundreds of them, gently stroking up and down his legs. They seemed to be coming out of his body, knuckled within the meat of his muscles. He screamed, lurching back as if he could escape them. Shiloh came bounding into the room and slid on the linoleum and began to bark.

“Gordon?”

In a panic, he stared down at his legs. The strange fingers were gone, but the feeling of their touch lingered. He slammed the refrigerator door shut and cocked his head toward the bedroom. Amber was already out of bed, standing in the living room—dark save for traces of moonlight and streetlamps that snuck in through the blind slats.

“Don’t turn on the light.”

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“Just got hungry. Shiloh startled me.” He forced his hand away from his legs, turned back just long enough to snag a loaf of bread off the countertop, and coming into the living room with two pieces in hand, started eating. The bread was dry as hell, like ash in his mouth. Somehow he knew exactly what ash tasted like. Unfathomably.

“You sure, honey?”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t eat after practice, and it was messing up my sleep. You gave me a pretty good workout too.” He grinned at her despite knowing it was lost in the dark. He hadn’t felt less like grinning since his mother’s funeral.

“I should have made you something. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. I just needed a sandwich. I was planning on going straight back to bed. It’s close to four. Go on back to sleep. You’ve got class in a few hours.”

“So do you.”

Gordon sighed.

Amber came nearer until her face showed in the dim light. Gordon stifled a cry. Her red hair disappeared into the surrounding darkness, so that she seemed bald. Her face was white, her forehead unnaturally high and her eyes two shadows. The face belonged to her and yet it didn’t, of course it didn’t, it could belong to nothing living. Was this the face from his nightmare? As if to answer, the trace of fingers on his legs jolted him again and he actually jumped. This weird behavior seemed to verify whatever doubts Amber entertained. He saw her coming to him. She touched his arm and he pulled away, stepping back from her. He was afraid, he realized, genuinely afraid of being touched by anything. He was being touched by invisible fingers he could do nothing about.

Amber’s tone was plaintive. “Gordon, please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Look, just—leave me alone. I’m okay.”

“Are you sick? I want to stay up with you if you are. I can’t sleep if you can’t.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t sleep, I just said I was hungry—”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

He did. He forced his gaze. The changes in her face were impossible but undeniable. He didn’t know what he was seeing. He couldn’t judge her age at all, but she had aged. She was bald. Gordon saw a broken woman, an anguished and dying woman. He’d seen her before. He knew he had, but couldn’t say where or how. That was the damn misery of it. This was a dying woman, and he was certain that, somehow, he was the cause of her dying.

“I’m going to turn on the light.”

“Really, don’t—”

Gordon flinched when he heard the switch flip, but the room stayed dark. Instead, outside, behind the slats, the world blazed into light. He stared at the orange and yellow panels the blinds had become, and jumped back as narrow rays of sunlight struck at his feet. He gasped. What had happened? Did they have a light switch in their apartment that could turn on the sun? The room’s darkness began to change to an overwhelming deep red, as if he saw everything through the haze of Amber’s hair. He was still dreaming. Had to be—

Pain burst across his forehead as the brightness increased, an agony with the speed of a needle matched to a swollen balloon. “Turn it off,” he said, his voice low, his eyes shut as he rubbed at his skull.

“What?”

Shiloh barked. Amber bent and tried to quiet the dog.

“Nothing...nothing, Amber.”

Gordon swayed a moment, then closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with his knuckles. The pain and the weirdness had come over him like a tsunami, but now he felt like he’d crested the wave. He opened his eyes and squinted through the swirl of dark colors to find Amber. She looked as she should even in a dim room, young and vibrant.

But she will fade.

The voice in his head was his own, but it spoke with more authority than he could imagine for himself. The crawling sensation returned to the skin around his inner thigh. To hell with this, he thought. Something’s just fucking wrong with me right now. I’ve got to get out of here.

“I think I’m going for a run.”

He knew the idea was ridiculous and probably frightened her. He hung his head.

“Running? No, you’re not!”

“It’s just something I have to do.”

“Bullshit, Gordon!”

He raised his hands to her lips. “It’s early. You want to get the police called on us?”

“The police, an ambulance, the Westervelt fire department—whatever it takes to help you.”

He went past her. As soon as she tried to touch him, he flinched away and rubbed the spot on his arm. She stared at him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Gordon,” Amber said, her tone reduced to begging. “Please. Is it something I said? Something I did?”

He backed down the hallway and into the bedroom, expecting her to follow. She didn’t. He bent for his workout gear from last night, slipped into the t-shirt and shorts and shoes. The clothes were hard from dried sweat. Their odor nauseated him but he had to move fast—no time to bother with changing clothes. As he started back down the hallway, he found Amber blocking the door.

“You’re not leaving.”

“Move out of the way, Amber.” He started to reach for her, and then pulled back. She noticed.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I just need to clear my head. I do that best by running.”

“You just collapsed five minutes ago.”

“Oh come on, I didn’t collapse.”

“There could be something really wrong with you. Are you that selfish—you’re going to leave me here to worry? What if you have a stroke or something?”

Gordon laughed and instantly hated himself for mocking her. With gentleness, he said, “I’ll be fine. Really. I know my body—I’m okay.”

“I’ll jog with you. Let me get my clothes on.”

“Amber—no.”

She was crying now. He felt like the biggest asshole in the world, but he couldn’t bring himself to console her. His legs were so consumed with the crawling sensation, it was all he could do not to jump up and down in front of her. He loathed the entire idea of touch, even hers. The one thing he’d desired most for over a year, the one thing he’d enjoyed and savored for an entire summer, now tormented him. He heard her sobs and all he could think was: Run, run, run, run.

“I’m going now,” he said.

She continued to cry. He waited a moment, wondering if he’d have to summon up the courage to move her. But she stepped aside.

He opened the door.

“Please take Shiloh,” she said. Her voice sounded dead.

“Okay.”

“Can I have a kiss before you go?”

He looked at her face. It appeared normal, except for the stress and pain he’d caused. She was not bald, not aged. Why had he seen her like that? Was he going nuts? Even now, the vision of Amber changed was more powerful to him than the face he saw in front of him, the face of the woman he loved. And he sensed, seeing the puffiness of her crying eyes, that this moment was their first shared step toward that future face.

It’s my fault, he thought. Everything is my fault.

Unable to cope with the idea, enraged by the very notion, he bent down and kissed her lips. He kissed past the revulsion of touch, past the sense that these were indeed Amber’s lips but colder, past the certainty that he detected a bitter inflexibility about her mouth. These things were not real, could not possibly be so: he was kissing her, the woman he loved. He would always kiss her. The tears on Amber’s cheeks wetted his face. As he reached up to touch it, her hands caressed his elbows. His spine stiffened in reaction and he broke away from her. Amber hugged herself and looked at the ground.

He stepped into the duplex hallway. The only sound was a humming fluorescent light and Shiloh’s eager panting. He headed toward the stairs. Then Amber whispered, “When will you be back?”

He turned and found her leaning out of the door. She was beautiful. Once again he felt breathless and sick for giving her pain. There was never going to be a day when he wasn’t in love with her. He kissed her lips and face, her neck. She beckoned him back inside, coaxing him, tugging on him. For a moment, all was light. But light was the cruelest tease, and his legs seemed to be covered in ants. He had to go. “It’ll be okay,” he managed to say before breaking away from her.

Then he ran.

 

When Gordon saw the cemetery gates he wondered if he’d somehow planned this destination from the start. He’d not taken a direct route. It was five in the morning now, an hour since he’d left Amber and about thirty minutes before dawn. He stopped at the iron fence, wrapping his fingers around the bars as he peered at the murky, scattered tombstones on the other side. Shiloh reached him a moment later and the ragged panting of man and dog were joined. They needed water. Shiloh’s thin, pink tongue dangled out as if hoping for sudden rainfall.

Mom, he thought.

Gazing through these black bars made him think he was an inmate of a bizarre outdoor prison. He sighed, turning to put his back against the fence. At his mom’s funeral service, he’d stared at her grave and swore to never forget any detail of it. Even now he remembered how he’d felt making that vow, as if a sudden wind had gusted against his face and hair to signal and seal a pact.

He’d been determined to visit her grave every day, a promise he kept by biking across town after school for many painful months. At first he would even talk to her tombstone and make it answer back, a stammering ventriloquist of grief. Sometimes a few adults visiting their own deceased overheard and stared at him. He’d see them making their shy, sad assessments, and wish just one of them would actually come over so he could tell them about her.

She’d been a hell of a mom, engaged in every aspect of his life. Movies, Cub Scouts, homework, sports, girl crushes (especially those). His father was a Doctor of Literature, but Gordon had thought of his mother as a Doctor of Everything. Dead, she must not go a day unvisited, and who would do it if not him? He sensed his father would never come, though Gordon liked to imagine him visiting in private. He liked to believe his father ate his lunch at the graveside every afternoon with a book of poetry he read from out loud. A cemetery needed its ghost.

Lifting his head now, Gordon turned back to the tombstones. How long had it been since his last visit? More than two years. The pointlessness of the journey had asserted itself in stages. At first he’d quit talking to the tombstone and just stared at it with regret. Then his silent, daily visits became shorter. Then they became weekly rather than daily.

He slapped his thigh to get Shiloh’s attention and walked the fence perimeter to the gate, which was closed and chained. He scaled it without effort and Shiloh wriggled his body through a gap in the posts to join him. They walked along the concrete path under shade trees that seemed oppressive in moonlight. After a moment Gordon realized the dog had stopped padding beside him. He turned and saw Shiloh lifting his leg near a tombstone. “No!” he said with a sharp handclap. The dog dropped its leg but refused to leave. It settled down along the tree and began to lick at the grass. The blades had precious drops of dew.

Figuring Shiloh would cause no problems, Gordon continued alone, buoyed by some vague remembrance of the tombstones asserting themselves in the diminishing dark. Many of the stones pre-dated the town’s incorporation and bore the last names of just seven or eight families. The town had another, newer cemetery on its north side, as well as a mausoleum; this one was filled mostly with the town’s founding families, and Gordon wasn’t sure how his mom had even come to be here. There seemed to be no space for his dad to rest near her. Had one or the other planned it that way? What did it mean? He assumed she’d loved her husband, but she’d never seemed to miss him when he was away. They’d seemed attentive and interested in each other but not in love the way Gordon thought love should be.

Walking past the graves reminded Gordon of the last part of his freshman English class with Amber. She’d asked the class to analyze Our Town. Gordon’s enthusiasm for Amber was already so great that he actually did try to read the play, but in the end boredom overwhelmed passion and he needed SparkNotes to write the C-minus paper. Still he’d been intrigued at the part in the play where the dead talk from their graves. He wondered what his mom would say.

She was the Universe.

Gordon stopped walking, looked about as if a voice had spoken from the trees. He bent over and touched his calves. The sensation of being fondled by some invisible force had ended. Maybe he’d chased it out of his system. If so, couldn’t he go home now? Couldn’t he run back to Amber and hope she wouldn’t demand an explanation, since he couldn’t provide one? Or if she did, couldn’t he just look her in the eyes and say, “You are my universe,” and let that somehow settle the matter?

He ran his fingers up to his thighs. The crawling sensation was immediate and he stopped, drawing a sharp intake of breath as he snatched his hands away. It was like he had something buried inside him. Could his skin be keeping a secret from his brain?

Just relax.

He walked on, mapping what he saw against memory. With the dark in retreat, the trees began to seem familiar. He was sure if he went past the third maple and cut left across the grounds, he’d find his mother’s grave. He did so only to find himself mistaken. It wasn’t there. He circled about, looking left and right, stepping over and around graves. Then, suddenly, the tombstone was just there, with its inscription—Rachel Fane—Beloved Wife and Mother. The name shocked him a moment; he’d come to so closely identify with his mother’s maiden name that it seemed wrong she’d died under his father’s.

She was happy with it. Why should I hate it?

He’d never asked himself the question so directly. Did he hate his name? It sounded ugly, like a sneer. It fit his father in ways Gordon couldn’t explain even to himself. Dad wasn’t a bad man, just aloof, shy, and odd in his preoccupations. He had the respect of his peers—didn’t that deserve a son’s admiration? Growing up, listening to his dad practice his lecture notes in his study, Gordon had thought him the smartest man in the world. He’d looked like his father too, especially as a little boy with his thin, knobby legs.

The shame and insecurity came later, around the age of twelve, when Gordon first saw his father use a cane. He’d already realized his dad wasn’t exactly a good-looking guy, with that mole on his forehead. He began to fear he’d grow one too, and started taking stock of any way he might resemble his father, even wrapping a tape measure around his legs, hardly able to breathe as he looked to see if one was getting thicker than the other.

Gordon knew how different things would be if Mom had lived. He certainly would have visited home more often. He guessed he would’ve left the dorm to eat with his parents every night. And his jersey would say Fane across the back. He thought of his father alone in the house. He remembered the day he found Shiloh and took him home to bathe him; how he’d opened the refrigerator only to find it empty except for the soap and shampoo bottle stored in the side compartments. Once Mom was dead and it was just the two of them, Gordon had felt more like an adopted orphan having to explain his life to a foster father. Dad knew nothing of his school, his friends, his sports or what girls he liked. One night, about a month after Mom’s death, Dad started coming into Gordon’s room at night with an anthology of poems and a glass of warm milk, as if determined to read his son to sleep. It had struck Gordon as both inept and sad, the efforts of a man trying to do for his son at fourteen what should have been done when he was four. Still, Gordon had relented, each time with a thousand regrets as the readings went on for over an hour.

 

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet—

 

His father was a good speaker, as he’d have to be after years of lecturing, but this didn’t transfer over to dramatic performance. He read the poems as if scared by them, enunciating each word with an unsure passion that attempted to convey something to Gordon. He had the impression they were like two people on opposite ends of a chasm, stretching their hands out toward each other. His father seemed locked inside himself as he read, never looking up from the page to see what effect the poems were having on his son, who sipped the milk with increasing boredom. He had no memory of ever staying awake through these uninvited reading sessions, but his father never got angry.

Then came a morning Gordon was too sick to go to school. It was about four months after his mother died, and when his father came to wake him, Gordon moaned and said he felt bad. At this, his father got strange even for him. His expression changed to grave concern, and he rushed to sit on the edge of the mattress. He became too attentive, feeling Gordon’s forehead, the side of his face, his chest, his stomach, his arms. Being groped like that had creeped Gordon out, and he’d tried to sit up, saying he would go to school after all. “No, you’re too sick!” his father yelled, pushing Gordon onto his back. Before he could move, his dad touched his forehead again, brushing back his hair, even stroking his eyebrows. That was when Gordon couldn’t stand it any more and shouted, “Wanna stick a finger up my ass and see if I’m constipated while you’re at it?”

He remembered his father just gaping at him and retreating. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—I know you aren’t—I’m sorry.”

He’d stumbled out of the room. Minutes later, Gordon heard the front door open and close, the car start in the driveway. His father was just going to work, no calling the school, no Tylenol, no gentle words. At that point Gordon realized the true difference between his mother and father. They both had the same desire for tenderness, but what his mother had expressed so naturally was somehow blocked in his dad. His father was like some gardener who always over-watered his plants, embracing the unstable deluge because he didn’t know how to sprinkle.

After that morning, Gordon had decided he wanted to be her son only, and began researching how to change his last name.

The sound of Shiloh’s trotting stirred Gordon from his memories. The dog’s fur seemed almost orange in the dawn light, and he thought of how Amber would look with the sun streaming through the bedroom window right now. His head bowed. Of course she wouldn’t be sleeping, not with the worry he’d caused. I’m such an asshole, he thought. He bent and scratched the dog’s ears, shoulders sagging in defeat. He owed her an apology and some kind of truth. He’d freaked out over a hallucination. If he put it that plainly, would she understand? Would she demand he go to a doctor? Well, if she did, then he’d go. He just had to be true to her no matter what. She was the Universe.

“Everything’s clear in the daylight, isn’t it, Shiloh? Too bad the sun doesn’t always shine when you need it.”

He gave one last, respectful glance at his mother’s tombstone. There was nothing for him here but memories, and he wanted to be done with those, both the pleasant and the sad. He stepped away and snapped his fingers to get Shiloh to follow. They slipped out of the cemetery, and he walked without direction, his head down. But in their town all roads led to Westervelt, and seeing the campus, so much nearer now than either Amber’s place or his father’s house, he decided to crash in his old dorm with its promise of a more immediate shower and bed. Then he’d find Amber in her office and confess everything.

He didn’t think about Shiloh at all until he reached his dorm building, but the dog’s presence caused only a momentary problem. He walked up to the security guard, a guy in his fifties who liked to think he was best friends with all the jocks, and said he wanted to show the dog off to someone real fast. Gordon was surprised when the guard seemed reluctant. In the end he had to barter some of his celebrity, agreeing to shoot hoops with the man at the Student Center next week. Then Gordon and the dog walked down the hallway, stopped three times by girls who fell in love with Shiloh on the spot. A couple of them gave the dog a pet, then gave Gordon’s arm one too, their fingers lingering. Gordon almost winced both times. The crawling feeling from last night’s dream reignited again, and he only just kept himself from flinching away. The girls looked at him and one asked if he was okay. He smiled, nodding, and got away from them. He knocked on the door to his room and said, “Hey, John-Mark. You up?”

No one stirred on the other side. Frowning, as he hadn’t a room key on him, he tried the knob. The door was not locked. Gordon’s frown became a grin. Finally something was breaking his way. He and the dog entered.

The room was dim and it took him a moment to realize John-Mark wasn’t there. Both the beds were unmade, which made Gordon chuckle. He hoped it meant John-Mark had been hosting some chicks and wasn’t pissed off about being abandoned.

Shiloh pawed his leg, startling him. The dog’s tongue hung long and desperate from its mouth again, the sound of panting filling the room. Gordon looked around and spotted the only viable water dish, a small Tupperware container John-Mark used to store whatever he found in his pockets at the end of the night. Gordon dumped the contents on John-Mark’s bed—three quarters, two golf pencils, a flash drive, three condom packages, a button—and went down the hall to the bathroom. Shiloh attacked the water as soon as he returned to set it down, and Gordon smiled at the loud slurping, having to hold the Tupperware down with his hand to keep the dog from knocking it over in eagerness.

When finished, Shiloh immediately stretched out, and Gordon knew the dog would be asleep in moments. He rifled through his closet and dresser for the few clothes he’d never got round to moving to Amber’s. Then he went to the shower and lingered under the water, almost asleep on his feet. He remembered how he’d felt in the shower last night with Amber, her hands all over him and how terrific her touch had felt. Before the dream or whatever the hell it was. He leaned forward and gently banged his forehead against the tile. No, he wouldn’t go to sleep after all. He had to find Amber right away and tell her everything, even if it was crazy.

As soon as he turned the water off, he heard the sound of Shiloh barking. The showers were an entire hallway away from his room, but the barking echoed, rapid, aggressive. Shit. Gordon swiped the towel over his body and raced into his clothes, blotching them with water. He sprinted from the showers and into his hallway. A crowd of about fifteen people were gathered outside his dorm room. Inside, Shiloh sounded furious. The unmistakable voice of John-Mark screamed over it.

“Someone open that door and help him,” a girl said.

“I’m not opening that door! Sounds like Cujo’s in there.”

Another student, aiming his cellphone camera at the door, said, “John-Mark sounds like he’s getting raped, yo. Fuck.”

Gordon shoved people aside and said, “Let me through!”

The students cleared for him on one side. They were clearing on the other, too, and Gordon was beat to the door by the security officer.

“What the hell is going on?”

From inside, John-Mark yelled, “There’s a fucking vicious dog in here. It bit me and it’s blocking the door!”

Gordon and the officer looked at each other. Even more students were gathering.

“I can take care of the dog.”

“If the dog bit—”

“He didn’t. You know John-Mark—he’s just dicking around.” He leaned toward the guard. “You and me will play him two-on-one next week. How’s that sound?”

The guard’s eyebrows lifted. In a low voice, he said, “My brother’s pretty good. He’s a huge fan of yours, too. How about you and me against him and John-Mark?”

“You know it,” Gordon said, forcing a smile. The security guard raised his hands and started yelling at the other students to clear out. Gordon touched the door. Shiloh’s growling vibrated through the wood.

He opened the door and slipped in. Before he got the door shut, he heard a guy say, “How come Evans can have a dog in his room? That’s favoritism!” He didn’t hear the guard’s answer. He was staring at John-Mark.

John-Mark was at his bed, almost standing on it, clutching his right hand at the wrist. Blood soaked the carpet beneath in steady drops. His pale blue t-shirt had a wet red smear on it. Gordon looked at Shiloh. The dog was standing in front of the bed, silent now but with an intense stare trained on John-Mark, the fur around its mouth red with his roommate’s blood.

“Holy shit,” Gordon whispered.

“What the hell is this, dude?” John-Mark’s voice was strained by fear and rage.

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

“Fuck no I’m not okay.”

“I—I was out jogging, and I wanted to stop by and—talk about last night. You weren’t here, so I figured I’d take a shower and—”

“That goddamn dog is dangerous.”

“I don’t know what to say. He’s never bitten... He must have been startled or something. That has to be it. Hell, the dog knows you, man. Why would he...”

“Just get it the fuck out of here before I kill it.”

Gordon stepped forward. “How bad is the bite?”

“See all the blood, asshole? I can’t bend my fingers!”

“Let’s go to the doctor. C’mon, I’ll take you. Maybe you just need stitches.”

“I said I can’t bend my fingers! I can’t even feel my hand. My whole season’s over.”

Gordon squeezed his eyes against a stab of pain in his head. He felt dizzy, reaching back for the door just as it opened. The doorway was suddenly crammed with people watching them in eerie silence.

“He just needs a few stiches,” Gordon said to them, as if appealing to a jury.

“Call the cops,” John-Mark said, holding up his hand again to show his own evidence.

Gordon realized he had nothing to counter the awfulness of the scene, despite being certain John-Mark’s injuries looked worse than they were. He bent down and wrapped his arms around Shiloh, hoisting him to his chest. The dog had grown since the last time he’d done this. It shocked him how heavy and large Shiloh had become.

“You think you’re just going to walk out of here, dude?”

“I’m taking the dog away until you calm down.”

Red-hot rage showed in John-Mark’s eyes. He thrust his hand into Gordon’s face. “How am I supposed to hoop it up now? I’ll be benched. You’ve fucking killed me, man. First my English grade and now this. You happy, Gordo?”

“I’m sorry! I’ll get Amber to give you a good grade. I’ll convince her somehow.”

“Fuck a good grade. I get a piece of her ass for this.”

A mix of gasps and giggles filtered in from the hallway.

“Dude, shut the fuck up—”

He froze as John-Mark stepped down from the mattress and presented his blood hand to everyone. Shiloh growled.

“That dog’s going down.”

“Just be cool, okay? You surprised him, that’s all—”

John-Mark swung at him with his good hand, causing Gordon to stumble and drop the dog. Shiloh lunged at John-Mark, locking onto his left ankle. Gordon shouted as people began to crowd in around him. In a moment there wasn’t even room to stand. He couldn’t see what was happening between John-Mark and the dog. The crowd almost seemed to be rooting for man and beast to fight. Then, over all the chaos, Gordon heard a high-pitched yelp and knew Shiloh had been injured. Gordon swung his arms and fought for room to stand.

He did not get up on his own power. New voices joined the commotion in the room, and their authority cut through it, silencing the rest. A hand pulled Gordon to his feet. He was about to thank the person when he saw the police badge.

In short order, the crowd was dispersed, leaving Gordon alone with two officers and a paramedic bandaging John-Mark as he sat on his bed. Gordon rolled his eyes at the drama. It looked like John-Mark could move his fingers after all, and the blood had mostly stopped. He kept trying to point this out to the cops, but finally one of them told him to shut up.

“Stick to answering our questions. You brought this dog in here?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you owned it?”

“Several months. Not even a year.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it.”

“It was a stray?”

“No, I just took him out of someone’s back yard. What do you think?”

A look from the officer ended Gordon’s sarcasm. They were asking so many questions that didn’t seem important. Shiloh was obviously safe. John-Mark had startled the dog and got bit. If John-Mark would just quit acting like an ass the whole situation would be over.

He looked at the dog. Shiloh was hunkered down in the corner, on his best behavior despite the strangers in the room. Good boy, Gordon thought. Just stay calm and we’ll all get through this fine.

Two more officers entered. Their badges were a little different from the others; they said Animal Control. After a moment of conferring with the regular police, one of them looked at him and said, “Gordon Evans?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Evans, are you confirming this animal did bite that man?”

Gordon swallowed. “He’s my roommate. He knows the dog. He must have just startled it.”

“Mr. Evans, how long have you had possession of this dog?”

“Christ, they just asked me that. Do I have to answer the same question a hundred times?”

“Is he registered?”

“Yeah. He’s got all his shots. He’s fine.”

“You’ve got proof of that?”

“Well obviously I don’t have his papers on me.”

The officer was writing stuff down. Gordon frowned.

“Has the dog bitten anyone before?”

He thought of Shiloh and his father. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

“Mr. Evans?”

“No,” Gordon said. “The dog’s just really tired. We were out jogging really early this morning. He was thirsty and worn out. John-Mark knows this dog. John-Mark, tell them, man!” He swallowed against the quaver in his voice.

The paramedic was now helping John-Mark to stand. The roommates locked gazes.

“I’ve never seen this dog before.”

“That’s a goddamn lie!”

“Mr. Evans, I suggest you get a hold of yourself.”

But Gordon wasn’t listening. As John-Mark and the paramedic went past, he said, “You’re a fucking asshole.”

John-Mark stopped and looked at the officers. “Why isn’t that dog locked up? What are you all doing?”

“We’re handling it.”

Gordon shook his head. “Locked up? You can’t lock up a dog. What are you talking about?”

“The animal has to go into quarantine.”

Gordon let out a disbelieving gasp. “John-Mark, are you actually pressing charges against a dog?”

“Whatever your roommate decides to do has nothing to do with quarantine procedures. The dog has to come with us.”

John-Mark cast a smirk at Gordon and then left with the paramedic. One of the animal control officers now produced a pole with a hoop on the end.

Gordon grabbed it by reflex. “Can’t we talk this over?”

“No.”

The officer moved the hoop over Shiloh’s muzzle. The dog remained rigid as the hoop passed over his face. But when it cinched around his neck, Shiloh sprang up and began a furious barking.

Gordon reached for the dog only to be pulled back by the policemen. His anger exploded at them. “It’s hurting him! Let him go!”

“Mr. Evans, you’ve got a few seconds to calm down or else we’ll take you away too.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Quarantine.”

It was a meaningless answer to him, but he backed away. He wished Amber were here. She’d be able to talk to them. She was a professor. The police would respect her authority.

“Strong bastard,” the officer holding the pole said as Shiloh fought him. He pulled on it, backing out the door as another officer cleared the hallway ahead of them. Gordon put his hands to his head and pulled at his hair. The dog was thrashing like a huge, dying fish on the end of the pole.

Gordon followed as Shiloh was dragged into the hallway. One end was blocked by the crowd of students who’d fallen back rather than dispersed. About twenty cell phones were raised to record the scene. Gordon yelled at them and then turned to follow his dog. The tug-o-war between Shiloh and the officer lasted until they got outside the dormitory itself, where the officer was free to use the pole in new ways. Shiloh resisted a moment longer, then broke to the officer’s will, whimpering as he was forced in a trot toward a white van. A cage was placed on the ground and the dog marched into it. Gordon swallowed hard at this defeat and watched as the cage was lifted into the vehicle. Shiloh began to bark again.

“What happens now?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Like I said, the dog’s going into quarantine for thirty days regardless of whatever else happens.”

“Thirty days? That’s a month.”

“Taught you that at Westervelt, did they?”

Gordon narrowed his eyes. It’d figure these officers were a bunch of townies raised to hate the college. He bit back a response.

They slammed the bay door, muting Shiloh’s bark.

“You’re not going to drug him, are you?”

“Not planning on it.”

“How do I get him back after the thirty days?”

“That,” the officer said, “depends on a lot of things. The dog is going to get evaluated first.”

“Evaluated for what?”

“Aggression.”

“I’m telling you, he’s a good dog—”

The second animal control officer came with a piece of paper—a citation.

“No collar, no tags, no papers. You’ll need to bring in his records to the address on the back.”

“Is that where Shiloh will be?”

“Yes.”

They opened their doors to get in.

“Wait a minute. So thirty days passes and you find out the dog is fine. Then do I get my dog?”

“I guess that depends on what happens with John-Mark,” the first officer said, getting into the van. Gordon was startled to hear him use the name. “I hope neither of you get kicked off the team. I remember in your freshman year when he almost got ejected for a technical. You pulled him aside, got him straight. Hate to lose two good players over a dog.”

The answer dazed him. Was this asshole talking about basketball? He just stared as the officer shut the door.

As the van pulled away, Gordon already knew he’d never see the dog alive again.