MINDY PULLED ONTO the shoulder behind the body of the animal, headlights bright on its mangled limbs, spread out at unnatural angles, matted fur mixed with blood. One glance and I nearly puked but I kept it down, close to me.
Jeff’s bent beneath the tire at the side of the road, screaming by with passing cars that won’t stop, might not even notice us in the dark, the fallen dog clinging to life on the highway’s shoulder.
“Where did it come from?” I say. Out loud I think. “Did you see it?”
Mindy is pacing back and forth in front of the Civic, wincing like she might have injured herself but she doesn’t answer me. I can hear the dog whimpering—a plaintive wail that bores into my skull. The blood seeps down my cheek onto my tongue. Like silver.
“You have a spare?” Jeff says, climbing out from underneath. The right rim is dented into the tire and the whole corner by the bumper is crumpled back onto itself. Mindy doesn’t speak.
“Are you okay?” I say. She looks at me like she’s looking through me.
“I’ll check the trunk,” Jeff says.
The cars keep screaming by. We’re stopped by a thicket of trees, and the shoulder is wide enough we might be fully out of view from the road, if it weren’t for the Civic’s headlights, throwing a harsh glare on the four-legged victim. It launched into the air upon impact and Mindy slammed her car to a stop. I almost wish she’d kept driving.
“Cy, give me a hand,” Jeff calls out. He drops the spare and a jack onto the shoulder next to the wheel. The dog’s howls keep getting louder.
“The dog is alive,” I say, but I don’t think anyone can hear me with the cars passing by so fast and the lug wrench clanging off the rim. The blood stings as it coagulates on my skin.
“We need to get it to a hospital,” I say.
It’s some kind of husky breed with white speckled fur, lying on its side with the front legs curled under and the back legs so crooked they almost look detached. The white is marred by red in the fading headlights.
“That dog is done for, Cy,” Jeff says. “We should put it out of its misery.”
The rim is bent back too far for Jeff to loosen the lugs so he stands up, close to me. The entire front corner has buckled under, tilting the car sideways, and the tire keeps losing air, filling the gaps between the dog’s wheezing.
“No, it’s alive. We need to get to a hospital.”
“What hospital?” Jeff says. “Where the hell are we?”
“I don’t know, an animal hospital or something.” I remember my iPhone and its GPS capabilities. “Maybe there’s one near here.”
The signal isn’t great and the mapping feature is slow and my hands are wet with sweat or the blood dripping from my cheek but a few results for ‘animal hospital’ come filtering in.
“Fuck,” Jeff says. “What time is it?”
“Late,” I say. We were already late when we hit the dog but I don’t want him to panic. More than he already is.
“We gotta get back, Cy,” Jeff says. “Fuck.”
Google lists a bunch of places in York or wherever the hell faraway, then the ASPCA, which is that place where some singer warbles about “angels” at 3 a.m., but I manage to click near one of the choices. The dog keeps howling, louder still.
“Cy, can you give me a hand?” Jeff says, back under the wheel to jack the car off the shoulder but the tire is flat and the rim is a mangled mash of rubber and steel.
“I found a vet hospital a few miles away,” I say. “An emergency center for dogs and other animals.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Jeff says. “If we can’t fix this tire and get the fuck home right now, I’m so fucking fucked.”
He stands up and starts to pace at the edge of the asphalt, slapping at his hip for several frightening seconds. We left too late—I knew we left too late but I didn’t check the time when we still at the concert and I should have said something but I didn’t want to leave. A dog is dying at the side of the road and Mindy’s car has a tire we can’t possibly fix.
“I have to call AAA,” she says, wincing a bit as she steps around to the other side of the Civic, away from the dog. The right headlight flickers from the accident, on and off like a spotlight.
“Should I call the hospital?” I say. “Maybe they have an ambulance?”
“Are you kidding me, Cyrus?” Jeff says. “If I don’t get home right now, I’m going to that Christian school up in Harrisburg. Can you call your aunt—maybe she can pick us up?”
“We’re half an hour from home, Jeff,” Mindy says. “AAA would be quicker. And maybe they could help with the dog.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jeff says. “What the hell was a dog doing in the middle of the fucking highway?”
“I don’t know,” Mindy says. She recoils again, holding her side as she steps forward, away from the highway. “But we can’t just leave it here.”
I notice its fur sticking from the bumper, clinging tight to the sheared-off metal in the headlights.
“It’s dead,” Jeff says. “It’s as good as dead. Do you see its hind legs?”
The dog’s moans start to wane, like it’s tried hard enough and it’s ready to give up.
“But maybe the AAA guy can fix the tire and we can hurry to the hospital to drop it off,” I say. “It’s not too far.”
“What part of we have no fucking time do you not understand, Cy?” Jeff steps over to me at the front bumper, exasperated. I think we kissed. Before the accident. I can’t quite remember.
“I never should have come tonight. Why the fuck did you make me come?” Jeff says, his mouth square and eyes ablaze. The jack collapses from the weight and the car slams to the pavement.
“Fuck!” Jeff shouts. “Fuck.” The cars keep screaming by for no fucking reason.
“I’m calling AAA,” Mindy says, stepping around to the front with us. “I’m sorry Jeff, I need them to fix the tire. And if he sees the dog, I’m sure he’ll have to report it. He won’t just leave it here.”
I watch the dog’s face in the flickering headlights—the jaw jutting out almost sideways, the white fur turned crimson but its eyes oddly clear, looking back at me. Mindy walks to the back of the car as she gets AAA on the phone.
“Call an Uber,” I say, handing my phone to Jeff. “It’s my dad’s account. I’ll wait here with Mindy and we can deal with the dog. Just get home.”
“Forget it,” Jeff says. “Uber will take even longer. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
He lifts the lug wrench off the ground and steps forward, toward the animal. Its howls grow louder all of a sudden and the air feels colder, like we’ve been out here forever.
“Jeff, what are you doing?” I say.
He moves past me, clutching the shiny metal in the shape of a cross.
“We have to get rid of the body,” he says, moving away from me. “Mindy’s right. The driver won’t leave it here at the side of the road.”
“Yeah, but Jeff.” I jump in front of him, blocking his path to the dog. “What are you doing?”
“Move aside, Cy,” Jeff says, teeth clenched, his blue eyes dulled like he’s looking through me, not at me. I grab hold of the lug wrench in his hands.
“Let the fuck go,” he says, jerking the wrench from my grip and pushing me back in one motion.
I trip on the asphalt, reaching out to break my fall, and Jeff slips past, quick and deliberate. Mindy shouts “No!” when Jeff lifts his arms above the animal’s body and I scream, a desperate scream, hiding my eyes from the scene. But the metal clangs off the pavement without impact. The dog keeps howling.
“Jesus, Jeff—what were you going to do?” Mindy says.
Jeff falls to his knees beside the dog at the side of the road. Whimpering.
The cars keep speeding past for no fucking reason.
The dog died on its own, before the AAA guy arrived, but the driver took extra time to call the police and make a report so we had to wait longer, like Jeff said we would. He stopped speaking—none of us were speaking, the entire drive home in silence once the driver jacked up the Civic, got the tire fixed, and sent us home.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” I say as we turn into our neighborhood but before I can finish, I spot Jeff’s stepfather in the driveway, his hulking figure perched against the closed garage door. Mindy drops us off and speeds away without saying goodbye.
“You realize what time it is?” the stepfuck says.
His shirt is tucked into stretchy khakis, belt fastened and straining under the pressure. We stop at the edge of the driveway, the cracked concrete at my feet.
“We were in an accident,” Jeff says. “We hit a dog.”
“You realize what time it is,” he repeats with a matter-of-fact tone more frightening than a shout.
“I didn’t happen to catch the time as we watched the dog die at the side of the road,” Jeff says. “We’re okay, thanks for asking.”
Mr. Danforth moves out from the garage, focused on the street as Mindy’s taillights fade in the distance. She said she might have broken a rib, the way her side is sore to the touch. I told her I’d go to the hospital with her but she just wanted to go home.
“Your aunt looks awfully young, Cyrus,” Mr. Danforth says, that same disinterested tone. “And if I’m not mistaken, Asian.”
“That was my friend Mindy,” I say. “She was—uh—helping with the move too.” I’m not a good liar but I need to pull it together. “She was driving us home and the dog, it came out of nowhere. We didn’t want to just leave it, and we had to wait for AAA.”
“Funny,” Mr. Danforth says. “Jeffrey didn’t mention her in his texts about coming home late. And your aunt didn’t answer when I called.”
Jeff and I stay at the edge of the driveway, one foot in the street.
“You have any explanation that resembles the truth?” Mr. Danforth says.
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to Jeff but I’m afraid I’ll make it worse if I speak again. Jeff glares at him.
“We’re done here.” The stepfuck says and heads up the walkway toward the house with long, unnatural strides. I wait until he’s inside.
“What just happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jeff says.
“What did you text him?”
Jeff shakes his head, stepping forward on the concrete, scratching at his neck. I think the bleeding stopped from the gash on my cheek but I haven’t looked. It hurts.
“I didn’t mention Mindy. Just that we were driving home from your aunt’s and we had an accident. I said I’d be home soon.”
“When was that?”
“While we were waiting for AAA,” Jeff says. “And you and Mindy weren’t speaking to me.”
Jeff lifted the lug wrench above the dog’s head like an executioner and I get that it would have died anyway because it did die anyway and we couldn’t do anything to save it but I can’t get past the look on its face. The way Jeff shoved me away. The porch lights fade.
“Go home, Cy,” Jeff says.
“What are you going to do about Roland?”
I step onto the lawn, beneath the overgrown maple tree. The branches spread from the garage to the front door of the rancher.
“I can handle it,” Jeff says, moving for the house. “Just go home.”
“But the last time this happened you had a black eye for a week.”
I reach up to my own cut, which isn’t bleeding anymore.
“Leave it alone, Cy,” Jeff says.
I step across the soft wet grass, bridging the gap between us.
“Come home with me, don’t go inside,” I say.
“I can handle it,” Jeff says, his voice sharp and deep but I can’t see his eyes, the dark of the night enveloping the house. “He tries to hit me again and I’ll fucking kill him.”
He steps onto the porch and disappears into the house as I wait under the maple tree, the pain in my cheek spiking through my head, a surge of vomit shooting up from my stomach onto the stepfuck’s well-manicured lawn.
I sprint all the way home.