Cut

City

Katvar is fidgeting in the snow, kicking at it with his fur-lined boots while the dogs dance around him. I walk up to him, hoping he isn't going to run away like he did every time I went outside to learn more about dog handling. Once, I'd asked him if he could tame adult wild dogs. He tipped his head and frowned, shrugged and laughed his odd throaty, huffing laugh. Then he disappeared, always with that knife gripped tightly and a tiny thing he hid the moment I approached.

Today, though, it seems as if he wants to tell me something. Both his hands are dug deep in his trouser pockets. His lower lip is pushed out a little. I wonder if he's mad at me. Last night, he put on his darkest expression when everyone was crammed into the council's meeting room, and we thanked them for saving our lives and announced that we'd be leaving in the morning.

The dog people — men and women with long hair that seems to melt into their fur coats — already knew. Rumour spreads faster than a dog fart, the saying here goes. When suspicions were confirmed, food and drink were carried in and cooked in two large fireplaces. Snowflakes melted on shoulders and hair, and the room began to fill with wet-dog smell, only to be replaced by rich scents of fried deer, smoked sausage, melted butter, warm bread, and baked potatoes. When I finished eating and tipped the dregs of my beer into my mouth, I noticed that Katvar was gone.

Now, the morning sun shines in his face and softens his unyielding features.

'Hey, Katvar.'

He points his chin to the west, as if he needs to go somewhere. What is it about me that makes him want to run away as soon as he sees me? I've been unfriendly, yes. But he ran a rifle into my face; what does he expect? 'I just want to say goodbye, didn't want to disturb you,' I mutter.

He shakes his head until the bobble on his cap is wiggling. His finger points at me, then at himself, then to the west. 'We walk?' I ask.

Yes! he nods.

'Okay. But Runner wants us to leave in an hour...'

Katvar looks at his boots, shrugs as if to shake off my comment, then walks ahead to find the exact same tree stump Runner and I were sitting on several days earlier to discuss disease in dogs and humans. He plops down and pats the small space next to him. This is the closest I've been to the man since he ran the butt of his rifle against my skull.

We sit together and say nothing because he can't, and I hate to be the only one talking. I don't have much to say anyway. The sun glitters in the snow, and the dogs are playing, yapping, and running circles around us. Katvar doesn't move, so they eventually give up and lie down, eating snow to cool their bodies.

Exhaling a large white cloud, he clears his throat and extracts both hands from his pockets. One is balled up; the other rests on his leg. He holds out his fist to me.

I open my hand and something white and small drops on my palm. A leather string is attached to it. I pick it up.

A shiny and intricately carved white dog smiles up at me. 'Beautiful,' is all I can say as my chest clenches. I gaze at him, and he taps at his teeth.

'It's a tooth?'

He nods.

'A dog? No, too large.' I squint at Katvar. He curves both index fingers and holds them to the corners of his mouth, fingertips pointing upwards.

'Wild boar,' I say, and he smiles happily, then nervously before he looks away.

'Thank you, Katvar,' I whisper. 'But if you think I'm angry at you because of the—'

He cuts me off with a slashing movement of his hand. He gestures at my forehead, the fading bruise, and shakes his head. Then he touches his heart. Oh shit. And he touches mine.