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SHADOW WHINED AND PRESSED against the wall. The gunshots hurt a good-dog’s ears. So did the woman’s screams. The men at the kitchen doorway yelled, adding to the confusion, even though the boy-thief from the Mall had his wrists bound. So much noise it made his fur stand up and his teeth ache to bite.
But Steven was here. He focused on his boy. They could be together again. It was a good-dog’s job to take care of his boy. He should be happy.
But Steven wasn’t happy. Steven was—what? Steven wasn’t Steven. How could that be?
He tuned out the woman’s screams. Ignored the men’s yells. Tried to center himself. Shadow watched. Sniffed. The air prickled his fur. Beneath the smoke-filled air, his boy smelled different. Moved different. Not like his boy at all. And he had the gun. Like before.
His torn ear throbbed, a hot and hurty reminder of what guns could do. His muzzle burned from the angry cat’s claws. Broken toenails screamed with each step. He should go to his boy. But that boy wasn’t Steven, wasn’t his boy at all. Shadow whined and pressed harder against the wall.
Shadow looked to September for direction. She called him good-dog. That made up for the hurts. But he was confused, uncertain. Tired.
“Steven. Drop the gun, honey.”
September wasn’t scared. She sounded in charge. He liked that. Human pups like Steven would, too.
Shadow paced a hopeful step closer to September, her confidence adding to his own. He watched Steven. He jumped and yelped when his boy made the gun pop again.
The gun reached out somehow, the way guns do, and bit the bloody-faced woman in the tummy. Her mouth opened in a silent disappointed “oh” shape as if somebody had stolen her favorite toy. She fell against the counter and slowly slid to the floor. She screamed again. “Steven, please, Steven. No.”
“No-no-no, no-no-no.” Steven parroted the words. His boy still pointed the gun at the lady.
Shadow yelped. A question—what do I do? His hackles bristled. He barked a high-pitched warning at his boy. But he kept his ears and tail low, respectful. He didn’t want that gun to bite him again.
“Shadow, shush.” September was quiet but forceful. “Combs, get Pike the hell out of here. Everyone, be quiet.”
Shadow stood, his tail waving fiercely, as the two men backed away from the doorway.
“He shot me. I can’t believe he shot me.”
“I should let him shoot you again, Lizzie.” September stood, held out her hand, palm down toward the boy. “Steven, drop the gun. And we’ll make everything quiet, okay?”
But Lizzie kept yelling. “Shot me! How could he shoot me? After all I did for him and his bitch mother, how could he shoot me?”
Shadow wanted to bark back, but September’s finger-to-lips signal stopped him. Instead, his front paws tap-danced his frustrated indecision. He felt lost. Should he go to Steven? Run to September? Flee out the door? The bristled hackles caused an itch that could only be scratched with action. But good-dogs follow the rules.
“No-no-no-no.” Steven’s free hand covered one ear, the other still pointed the gun. He flushed, and a sudden, sun-bright rage burned the fog from his expression. “Stop the bitch-noise stop the dammit hurty noise Steven says stop-stop-stop-STOP!” He ranted, the words repeated over and over again.
Shadow stood tall, his tail high. He moved toward Steven, woofed under his breath, and backed up and repeated the action. He stared at September. Steven’s tantrums weren’t new. But this wasn’t a tantrum. He waited for September’s signal for what to do.
September gulped. Even the shot woman fell silent at Steven’s rant. The boy sidled forward and pointed the gun at the woman’s bloody forehead.
September’s eyes cast about the room. Shadow woofed again—pleading ‘look at me.’ When she did, he wagged and willed her to understand. He was ready.
And then she was ready, too. He saw her chest expand with a subtle breath. His head cocked, intrigued, when she scooped up the toy at her feet. He was ready for whatever she asked.
“Shadow, this is Bear.” September held up the toy.
He stared at her, focused, ready.
September held out her other hand. “And this is gun. Show me gun.” She pointed at Steven’s revolver with the final command, and held her breath.
Shadow’s ears came forward. He launched himself. His nose-punch spun Steven’s gun across the room. And then, because it just seemed the right thing to do, Shadow pinned his boy to the floor and dodged screams and flailed limbs until within seconds, Steven calmed down.
“Good-dog, Shadow.” September hurried to the tangled pair and knelt beside them. “What a smart dog, good boy.” She reached to touch Steven, hesitated, and stroked Shadow’s brow instead. “Good boy, such a good boy.”
Shadow thumped his tail, licked her hand. She tasted of tears and pain, blood and joy. Nothing else mattered, not his ball, not his bear, not even his boy. Nothing mattered, only this. Approval in her voice. Her touch. Her scent.
Sudden sunlight spilled through the bars of the stained glass windows and bathed the room in a warm peacock glow. The storm had ended.
Shadow’s hurts didn’t matter, not anymore. Home wasn’t a place. Home was a person. And Shadow was home.
