Page 68 of The Quiet Tenant

He sighs again, hand still on the gun. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do,” he says. “But look. This is what happens when an animal gets hurt. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s the kind thing to do.”

He kneels at his daughter’s side. “Let me take it outside.”

Is this really going to happen? And are you going to let it? Are you going to watch as this dog—this cute dog, with a round belly, white teeth, and the tiniest paws—is shot dead?

Cecilia picks up the dog again. The pup lets out a whimper, as if begging you to intervene.

“Put it down, Cecilia.” His voice comes out low. It’s the same growl, almost like a purr, that he used the day he took you.

Perhaps that’s what spurs you into action. Perhaps you take it personally, the idea that this—any part of this—could compare to what he felt when he thought he was about to kill you.

“She’s still breathing.”

His head jerks up in your direction. He gives you a look of intense focus, likeHow dare you.You shrug.I’m just saying.He fiddles with the holster.

You insist, “She’s not dead.”

Cecilia looks up at you. It’s the first time your eyes have met since the night in the living room. Since you tried to save her, and all she gave you in return was a scream. Something grabs you by the throat—a girl, fierce and afraid and resolute. Bent against the will of her father.

Shame rises in your stomach, thick and hot. You forgot. You have been so busy hating her, despising every cell of her, that you forgot everything you know about her and her dad. Footsteps down the hallway at night. His iron grip on her life. Everything he does, everything he hides from her.

And now here she is, crouched on the kitchen tiles with a bloodied animal in her arms, and she’s thirteen and sweet and kind and she wants to rescue this dog. Her mom died just a few months ago, her life’s been turned upside down, and still this girl wants to do good. Maybe she wants something to love. She’s been lonely. You know she has. Maybe she wants a companion, something to hold. Something that will love her back. Something that won’t hurt her.

You step forward, wedge yourself between Cecilia and her father. Let your gaze meet his,Easy now.You lower yourself to take a closer look at the wound. It’s nasty. Can a dog even survive this much blood loss? You’re not sure. But it’s worth a shot.

Something ignites within you. You need it, desperately, the possibility of a rebirth in this house. Proof that the wounded can come back to life within these walls.

The wheels in your brain turn furiously, trying to twist this into a situation that lets him emerge as the winner.

“You could help her,” you say.

He glares at you. He thinks you’re being defiant, reckless. But you know where you’re going with this.

“Didn’t you learn what to do in these situations?” you continue.

He frowns. He’s close, so close to having a bit of fun, and you keep getting in the way. But to your left, Cecilia gets animated. She looks up at him again, eyes wide with purpose.

“Yes, Dad,” she says. “When you were in the marines?”

He rolls his eyes, still unconvinced.

As discreetly as possible, you catch his glance, then tilt your head toward his daughter. Your gaze travels to the dog, then back to him.This is your chance,you want to tell him.Remember those fights you’ve been having, those stormy dinners and her furious steps up the staircase? Your little girl is growing up, but you still need her to regard you as a hero.

Save the dog. Be a hero. Don’t do it for her. Don’t do it for the dog. Do it for yourself.

He bends down. You can barely believe it. With his free hand, he opens a cabinet under the sink and rummages inside, pulls out a first aid kit. Then he gestures for Cecilia to place the dog back onto the floor. He lets go of the holster. Cecilia releases the dog. With precise, quick gestures, her father opens the kit and takes out a bottle of disinfectant.

A nudge against your leg. “Put one hand underneath its jaw. The other on its hip. Make sure it stays still.” You hesitate a second, then place your hands on the dog as directed. He shakes the disinfectant bottle. “Above all, make sure it doesn’t bite me.”

Tempting,you think, but you are rooting for the dog, for Cecilia, for yourself, for the three of you to stay out of trouble. There is a slight tremor in his fingers as they approach the dog and spray the wound. He winces, dabs the torn flesh with a compress. “Put your hand here,” he tells you. You apply pressure to the gash. Together, the three of you wait for the bleeding to stop. Cecilia gestures to help, but he tells her to stay away.

You will the dog to life underneath your palms, persuade yourself you can perform miracles. The kid is watching. You won’t let the dog die in front of her. You will never let her down again.

The bleeding slows. You wait some more and, when it has mostly stopped, he starts dressing the wound, tapes the bandage into place. The dog pants. She is in pain, surely, but she is alive. She is alive.

Cecilia volunteers to retrieve an old pillow from downstairs. Thedog can use it as a bed, she says. Her father tells her to stay here, that he’ll go get it.

Downstairs.

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