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SHADOW STOPPED BARKING when he recognized the brittle-voiced woman in the pool of hot water. She sat neck-deep in the tub, outstretched arms floating while her head lolled backward. Red stained the water from her nose, and tainted the cold air with bitter copper. As Shadow watched, she slowly slid, slumped sideways, settling deeper into the wet.
He whined, and looked from the woman to the locked gate. The bad man—he still detected his pungent presence—lurked on the other side of the barrier. Shadow had to protect September, that was a good-dog’s job! But this woman needed help now. September would want him to help her.
So he barked, and barked some more, but nobody came to help a good-dog. September would heed his warning if she could. Maybe she couldn’t get past the barrier, either?
Padding closer to the unconscious woman, he nudged her neck. But that didn’t rouse her. She just slipped farther into the hot water. He licked her face, and then ears—that always made September giggle and laugh—but the woman didn’t react. She slid down again, and this time her face slipped beneath the coppery water.
Shadow reached down, under the water, to clamp strong teeth into her hair. And he backed up slowly, tugging her upward, grateful the water helped lift her high. After tugging for endless moments, Shadow let go, happy when she seemed to settle in place and stay still, head above the wet.
Red still slowly spilled down her face, though. The water tasted bad, too.
The tall wooden fence all around the steamy bath couldn’t be climbed. Shadow knew that without trying. No rough edges offered paw purchase, and only cement he couldn’t dig covered the ground when he investigated. Shadow yelped, urgency demanding he act, do something. But what?
September screamed.
Shadow threw himself at the wooden gate. But as he expected, it didn’t give way. He spied a cart with wheels next to the far wall. It held several big bottles on the bottom, lined up side by side, with stacked plates and glasses on the top.
When September screamed again, Shadow didn’t hesitate. From a standing start, he leaped upward to the top of the cart—scattering plates and glasses to shatter on the cement below—then up and over the fence, and raced to find September.
He pelted around the back fence. The rear kitchen door carried September’s scent where she’d entered. He battered the closed door with his paws, but it wouldn’t open. September had stopped yelling. But her cries came from the other side of the house, near the front door. So Shadow galloped the long way around to reach her.
As he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps, the front door swung open. The bad man had September slung over his shoulder, her head and chest covered in plastic cinched tight.
Bleak pulled out his gun, and aimed.
Reflexively, Shadow dodged one way, then feinted forward with teeth bared. The man’s gun followed him. Shadow tensed for the gun’s bite, knowing it could reach out however far away he might be. Bleak would be ready for his nose punch. So instead he lunged, with jaws wide, and clamped hard on the man’s swollen wrist.
The gun spat once, twice. Shadow hung on, growling, shaking his head like he did with bear-toy. The gun fell.
The man kicked him, catching him hard in the ribs. Shadow yelped, and spun away, then came back again. He lunged at the man’s other arm, holding September’s legs tight against his shoulder. He made Bleak drop the gun. He’d make him drop September, too!
Instead, Bleak landed another kick, half spinning Shadow around. And he slammed the door in Shadow’s face.
Shadow threw himself at the front door, anguished cries echoing in the still, cold air.
