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Theo sat on Kali's couch, his eyes wide and moist, glaring at Lincoln.
Lincoln sat on his own couch, legs spread wide, back bent over them. Every few minutes he glanced at Theo and offered a smile before letting his head fall again. Romper. The dog's head had perked up when Lincoln pulled his truck into the family's driveway. When the front door opened, he barked joyously and leapt out of the cab the moment Lincoln opened the door. He tackled the boy, who fell back onto the grass, and smothered him with kisses. He hadn't licked Lincoln, not once. The parents came out then, along with a little girl. Smiling. All of them smiling, like Lincoln wasn't dying right in front of them.
The little girl laughed and jumped. The father shook his head, a grin plastered on his face. It was almost a minute before anyone acknowledged Lincoln.
He took a step toward the excitement. “Well, I guess it's your dog.”
It was the father who looked over. “Yes.” He looked back to his children. “That's our dog.” A pause, where Lincoln was forgotten again.
And then the mother looked over, her eyes bright. “Thank you for—”
“No.” Lincoln waved his arms in front of him. “Sorry, I ... didn't know about the chip. If I had—” Would he have done anything? Romper pranced into his life, following him, insisting on being loved at the exact moment Lincoln needed someone to care for, someone to care for him.
Drunk. Angry. Wondering what was the point of life and half passed out against a tree, a damp nose pushed itself against Lincoln's cheek. And Lincoln had seen him—hungry, tired, ridiculously mangy looking—in need of a friend.
He'd taken Romper on a hike through the woods a few days later. On the drive back he'd seen the land for sale sign. The dog gave a reassuring bark, and Lincoln had known. That land was what he needed. That land was what would heal him.
“He looks healthy.” Another grin from the father.
Lincoln fought to keep it together, to push back the moistening of his eyes, not let his hands shake, not scoop the dog up in his arms, jump in the truck, and drive away.
“Well,” Lincoln raised a hand to the level of his head and stepped back, “I guess that's that.” The parents' heads turned toward him, more nods, smiles, murmurs of thanks, while Lincoln opened the truck’s door.
Romper's head shot up, his attention pulled from the boy. He looked at the scrawny teen, at Lincoln, back to the teen. His head tilted. “Bye, boy.” Lincoln's voice came out deep. Hoarse.
Romper stepped away from the boy, and the family tensed.
“Maestro.” The boy's voice held a hint of desperation.
“Maestro.” The father's held gruff command.
Lincoln's chin trembled.
The dog came toward him and nudged his nose against Lincoln's thigh. Lincoln looked to the family, his eyes wide, helpless.
Another nudge.
What would the dog do if Lincoln cocked his head toward the seat, as he had so many times before, indicating it was time to go? Lincoln stood rigidly, his gaze darting from the dog to the family. He could try. Cock his head, see if Romper jumped in, and if he did, Lincoln could pull away, shout out an apology as he gunned it up the street.
But if Romper didn't jump in? If he looked at Lincoln as if he were pathetic, shook his head that Lincoln could think, actually think, he'd choose him over the family who raised him?
Lincoln sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around the dog's body. Romper pressed his head against Lincoln's and then, when Lincoln stood, Romper stood as well, and took two steps back.
Lincoln hopped into the truck and slammed the door. He turned on the ignition. Romper sat, the boy and his family all standing a few feet behind him, like a picture. Lincoln glanced in his rear view mirror and inched out of the driveway, his chest tight. Maestro sat watching. Sat. Didn't follow. Didn't bark in confusion. When Lincoln pulled onto the street, Romper stood. He took a couple of steps forward and gave one bark. One happy bark. Lincoln switched into drive. Before the turn at the end of the street, he looked back. Maestro had turned and was following his family into the house.
Lincoln raised his head. Theo was still glaring.
“How about pizza?” Kali asked as she stepped into the living room. “To celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
A tear trailed down Theo's cheek. He wiped it away angrily.
“That I got through the training, that the woman I'm replacing had nothing but good things to say, that I got the job.” She smiled at Theo. “I know today was hard.” She turned to Lincoln. “But you did the right thing. Not that you need me to tell you that,” back to her son, “and Theo, baby, you'll understand one day. I promise. One day when you have your own dog.”
His eyes widened in a moment of hope.
“Not any day soon. But maybe one day. Probably one day.” She stepped further into the room. “So, pizza? My treat.”
“Sure.” Lincoln stood. “Would be great to celebrate you getting one step closer to all of us getting our lives back.”
Kali's lips pursed as he passed her. He hesitated, debated rephrasing his words, hated himself a little, and walked on.
Later that night, after she put Theo to bed, Lincoln watched Kali enter the living room. “How's he doing?”
Kali looked over at Lincoln, a soft smile on her face. “He'll be all right.” She shrugged. “Kids are supposed to be resilient, right?” She curled up on her couch—the first time she'd sat out here with Lincoln in days. If he was in the living room, she was in the kitchen. If he was in the kitchen, she'd be in the living room or her room. He stayed in his room often, so she wouldn't have to worry about it.
“Right.” Lincoln watched her, the way she rubbed her head, how her eyes seemed squinted. “Are you all right?”
Another smile. Did her eyes glisten in the light more than they should?
“A headache. No big deal.”
He shifted toward her. “Bad?”
“More that I've had it so often.” She dropped her hand. “Mornings usually. This pressure.” She raised her hand again and pressed her palm against her forehead. “And my eyes. They're blurring. Too much hitting the books.”
“You've been studying those manuals every night.”
“I know.” Another smile—for her this time, not him. “Not tonight, though. I need a break.” She scanned the room. “The apartment feels empty, doesn't it? Without his nails clicking across the hardwood. Without his smell.”
“He didn't—”
“Not bad. It was a good smell. A very doggy smell.”
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the couch. One minute. Two. Lincoln kept his eyes on her. She breathed deeply. “You know, Theo never wanted to go with anyone else as a baby. He clung to me. Even my mom—it took a while before he would settle in her arms.”
Lincoln kept silent.
“It's always taken him a long time to warm up to people. At the daycare, before it exploded, there was only one worker he connected with. He clung to me, tears streaming down his face the first time I left him with Mrs. Martin.” Kali opened her eyes. “But not you.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was Romper.”
“You mean Maestro?”
She gave a sad smile.
“Theo certainly wasn't a fan of me tonight.”
“Me neither.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling. “It kills me—how he can't express himself. I wish he'd yelled at us tonight. I want him to throw a tantrum, question, let me see what's inside. Instead, it's all hidden. Bottled up.” She looked at Lincoln, her eyes pleading, searching for an answer he didn't have.
“He'll talk if he needs to.” Lincoln hesitated. “When he needs to.”
“Sure.” She nodded. “One day. And I'm doing all I can. I'm doing the best I can.”
“Absolutely.” Lincoln rubbed his hands on his legs. His throat went dry. He didn't like this—them, talking. Them, so close.
“They teased him, you know, the kids at the daycare. Not so much the first one. The one that—” She stopped. “But the next one. The older kids. They called him stupid and weirdo and freak. And the workers. They spoke so politely, so clearly, like I was stupid. Like I couldn't hear or understand.” She spoke under her breath. “Like he was stupid.”
Kali made her voice go loud and higher pitched. “We're sure your son will learn one day, but he's just so behind the other children. It's a distraction. Disruptive.” She shook her head. “Can you believe that? Silence disruptive. We don't have the resources for one on one care. We don't want to see him singled out. It's better if you take him elsewhere. Bitches.”
Lincoln made a noise of agreement.
She said something, barely a whisper. Lincoln leaned forward. “What?”
“I'm so scared.”
“Scared?”
“This new daycare. What if they don't take him? I talked to the administrator. Told her he had ... Mutism.” She shuddered to say the word, as if it tasted vile in her mouth. “And she said it was fine, that all children were unique, but what if the workers don't feel that way, what if the children ...?” Kali turned her gaze to the floor.
She looked so small on the couch. Looked like she needed to be held. He wanted to take it all away—her pain, her fear. She pulled her feet up under her and he marvelled, for probably the hundredth time, at how small they were. Outside she hid them away in those big combat boots, even on the hottest days. But he got to see them.
“Children always find something to make fun of each other for.” Lincoln offered a smile. “Always. Theo's at a disadvantage because he can't say anything back. But when it comes down to it, lots of kids can't say anything back.”
She laughed. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. I don't know.” Lincoln let a few breaths pass. He shouldn't say anything more. Shouldn't ask a question. Shouldn't take in the line of her neck or the curve of her hip. “Did anyone die in the explosion?”
“No. The worker, the one he liked, who liked him, was badly burned on one arm. A little on her face. Some smoke inhalation. She lost some of the use of her hand. But besides that, besides her, just minor injuries.”
Lincoln nodded. “Maybe enough time has passed. Maybe being in the new daycare will help him heal and being around all those kids who are talking will let him see it's not such a big deal.”
“Maybe.” Kali shifted, her body angled toward him. “I'm sorry about Romper. Truly.”
“It's not your—”
“I know. But if I hadn't been here you'd still have your dog.”
“And a thirteen-year-old boy wouldn't have his.”
She stared at him the way she had that night—as if she saw something in him that didn't often reach the surface. Lincoln raised a hand to his chin and rubbed the scraggly hair there. He pursed his lips, wanting to inch toward her and wanting to flee.
She edged toward the end of her couch, closer to him. “What happened?”
“Hmm?” She was so close—he could reach out and graze her arm if he wanted—and so woman. Alarmingly beautiful in the fading light. He didn't think about it often, her beauty. It was strong. Almost an affront. Almost offensive, like she didn't have the right to look that perfect.
But the dim light softened her beauty, made it seem more of this earth, made it seem like maybe if she weren't sitting in his apartment because she had nowhere else to go, she could be sitting here because she wanted to be. That they could share one couch.
“Lincoln?”
His limbs tingled with the need to close the distance between them. Three steps is all it would take.
“To you.” Her voice sliced through him. “What happened to you?”