Several sunrises later, I’m lounging in a yellow daisy spot on the floor next to Colonel Victor’s reclining chair. His face is falsely colored again with rainbow pills. He’s watching loud and shiny traffic jam television. I alert him with whines and growling whenever dangerous animals show on the screen, because those animals need to understand that this is the Abeyta den, and they are not allowed. The Colonel chuckles at that, tiny tired huffs like sprays of smoke. He pats my head. Says, “Thank you, Miss Daisy. What a good girl.”
My paw has healed. We’ve started training again. I’m a useful tool. I am a good girl with one good ear.
Micah pops around the corner. “Look, Dad!” He thrusts his arm toward the Colonel. I stand, alert. The Colonel does not like surprises like thrusting things.
“I drew on a tattoo, Dad, like yours!” Micah twists his arm. There are bright, magical colors there. If you care enough about something to wear a picture of it on your skin, it must be a large part of your soul. Micah’s soul swirl looks like the basketball he dribbles, with a net and a number, and a red tae kwon do belt knotted around it.
The Colonel’s turtle eye blinks. His heartbeat kicks up a notch. I inch closer. Micah slides his gaze toward me, a snake slicing through water.
“Is that . . . Sharpie?” the Colonel says, voice sand dry.
Micah shows his teeth. It’s happy human stuff, not dangerous. “Yeah. Tattoos are supposed to be permanent, right?”
“Tattoos are supposed to be painful,” the Colonel says. His voice echoes; it’s coming from a hollow place. He chuckles like rocks crunching under tires. “Don’t let your mother see that.”
Micah shows more teeth. “You like it?”
The Colonel clears his throat. Shifts in his chair. His face pulls down. But he makes his voice the color of lemon-yellow pie: “Yeah,” he says. “Looks good, son.”
He’s lying. Lies are when your shadows and your heartbeat don’t match the shade of your words. Humans do this all the time. It’s so confusing. Why lie? Isn’t the truth always best? Isn’t the truth the most heroic? The most useful?
Micah bounces on his toes like the ball he always dribbles. “Yeah? Cool.” He spins like wind.
“Son?” Colonel Victor says, his voice chalky. Micah stops. Looks back. Colonel Victor is fighting to calm himself, like telling yourself don’t look down when you are high up and teetering. I step between the two of them. The Colonel doesn’t notice. Micah does.
The Colonel rakes the next words from the bottom of his soul: “Tattoos are for warriors.”
Micah’s face might split in two, his teeth show so much. “Warriors. Yeah!” He bounds from the room, a skippy, nimble frog.
The Colonel swallows. I can hear how knotted his throat is. He lays a hand on my back. I can feel how taut his muscles are.
He rubs the soul swirl tattoo on his own arm: a kingly buck, antlers so big they stretch up and over the Colonel’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” he mumbles, his voice sticky like peanut butter. “I’m sorry, Buck. I’m sorry, Buck. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Buck.”
He’s not crying. He’s stuck in a too-tight place for his soul. He’s rubbing his skin raw like sand.
“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m sorry.”
I understand this. Buck was part of Colonel Victor’s pack, and now he’s not.
Buck is gone.
I understand this because I’ve lost part of my pack before, too.
My soul tattoo is my torn ear.