Page 70 of The Weight Of Falling
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After a long workday, I decide to treat myself to Thai. My mouth is watering at the thought of spring rolls and a green curry. A client mentioned a new place just off Main Street. I haven’t had a chance to eat there yet, and I’m looking forward to it. Brown Oaks is continually growing, and there are still so many areas I haven’t fully explored.
It took me a while to shake off that strange encounter outside the gallery and settle back into my illustrations. After Tess declared my two foxes looked like “a before photo for couples therapy,” I found my stride and started again. After that, the afternoon found a rhythm and the busyness of work distracted me from thoughts of Joel.
I didn’t bring any of it up with Tess or Sofia. We were sprinting toward a deadline, and they had their heads down, focused on meeting it. I was grateful for the breathing room. They didn’t notice I was quieter than usual. Or if they did, they were kind enough to leave it be.
By the time I hit the block off Main Street, the evening air has a soft bite. I glance at my watch. It’s after eight. No wonder I’m so hungry. Lunch was hours ago.
The restaurant should be down this side street, but there are no lights in the windows and no tempting smells. I slow my steps. Did I get the wrong street? I’m pulling out my phone to check the directions when movement in a storefront window catches my eye.
I stop, my pulse kicking up.
With my phone clutched tightly in my hand, I hesitate, debating what to do. The lamps throw out small pools of light, but the street is mostly deserted. I should keep moving. Dinner, not drama, I remind myself. And yet I’m sure I saw something move behind the glass. Something small.
I swallow. It was probably a shadow, or my imagination working overtime. Still, I edge closer to the window to be sure.
That’s when I see it. A small, worried face behind the window staring at me. A beagle, I think. And oh gosh, it’s cute.
I step right up to the glass. It’s still staring at me, its tan-and-white head tilted. Those eyes sear straight into my soul. They seem to be pleading with me to do something.
“Hey, little one,” I murmur, unsure if it can hear me. “What are you doing in there?”
The dog presses its nose against the glass. It looks hungry. When was the last time the poor thing ate? Oh, no. Now it’s panting, its tongue lolling out. My mind is frantic. It could be desperate for water, on the verge of dehydration.
I scan the dim interior for a water bowl, a bed, any sign this is normal and not a mistake. There’s nothing I can see.
“Okay,” I say, mostly to myself. “Let me see if I can open the door.”
I try the handle, but the door is locked. I jiggle it up and down, but no luck.
“Hang on,” I tell the beagle.
I circle to the alley and test the back door. It’s also locked.
What kind of inhumane person would do this? Lock up a small, helpless creature with no access to food or water? And how is it supposed to do its business? Actually, a part of me hopes it’s peed and pooped all over the store floor, so the despicable owner has to clean it up. That would serve them right. I feel a small stab of guilt at the thought, but this is a desperate situation.
As I stare at the beagle, chewing my lip and wondering what to do next, it suddenly flops onto the floor, as if too weak to stand.
My breath catches. This is terrible. It’s also definitely a boy.
“Hang in there, little one,” I call out desperately. “I’m going to get you out.”
I look around frantically. At first, I don’t see anything I can use. Then I spot a trash can. I hurry over and pry off the lid, lugging it back to the window. It’s heavier than I expected.
The beagle is still staring at me.
For the briefest instant, I hesitate. A small voice in my head whispers that this is a terrible idea. I ignore it.
As if sensing what I’m about to do, the dog moves away from the window. Once I’m sure he’s safely clear, I swing the trash can lid at the glass, and it shatters. The noise is unbelievably loud. I wait for the shards of glass to settle, then I carefully step inside and pick my way over to the beagle, who’s waiting patiently for me, as if he knows I’m here to save him.
Gently, I scoop him up, cradling him against me as I make my way out of the shop and onto the sidewalk.
He nuzzles my neck, then licks my jaw in gratitude. His fur smells faintly of dust and something sweet, like old cardboard.
“You’re safe now, my boy,” I whisper.
That’s when I hear the whoop of a siren and see the red and blue flashes from a patrol car light up the street.
