Lester of Two Evils

The Chases

Lester's stomach woke before he did. Standing barefoot on the hard kitchen tile in the light of the refrigerator, he ate leftover fried chicken and drank milk straight from the carton. When he finished, he decided he was too awake to go back to sleep and quietly got dressed in the dark.

There was a chill in the air, and Lester's breath puffed out in front of him, as he wheeled his bike into the driveway. Summer was rapidly fading into memory as autumn took hold, and he zipped his sweatshirt, pulling the hood up against the cold.

"Good morning, Mac," he said to the shaggy brown dog. "You up early too?"

Mac gave his familiar growl as clouds of steam escaped from between his bared teeth.

Lester reached down to give the dog a pat on the head but stopped. Something was wrong. The hair on Mac's back was ruffled and standing on end, and a line of foaming drool dangled from his chin.

"What is it, boy?" Lester looked around, expecting to see the neighbors cat cutting through their yard on its way home from a night of hunting. But there was nothing there. "Are you okay?"

He was beginning to worry the dog might be hurt or sick when Mac gave a sharp bark and lunged. Lester pulled away but too slow, and the dog's foaming jaws clamped down on his hand. Pain shot through his arm, and he cried out. This seemed to surprise Mac as much as Lester, and the dog quickly let go.

Stunned, Lester held his arm against his chest and examined his hand. A semicircle of deep red indentations shown down one side. The bite hadn't broken the skin, but it hurt, and he was sure to have a nasty bruise.

"What is wrong with you," said Lester angrily.

Mac had been good-naturedly harassing him for the better part of a year, ever since he'd started his paper route. The dog would wander down from the farm, give a growl or two, and Lester would pretend he was frightened by the vicious wild beast. Satisfied he'd done his duty, Mac would then go home, and Lester would make his deliveries. It had become their thing. He'd never seen him act this way before.

Lester was considering whether he should go to the trouble of getting an ice pack for his hand when Mac began barking loudly.

"Quiet! Stop it! Bad dog!" hissed Lester, afraid the commotion would wake his parents. He tried to shoo Mac away by waving his arms and stomping his feet, but the dog just crouched lower and showed more teeth.

Lester's swollen hand throbbed, and Mac's barks became sharper and more frequent, intent on alerting the neighborhood to the danger lurking in their midst. Risking another bite, Lester leaned down until he was level with the dog and spoke through gritted teeth of his own.

"MAC — GO — HOME!"

Both the boy and the dog froze. The words that had left Lester's mouth had been in a voice not his own. This one was thick, low, and guttural. It sounded like a slowed-down recording played through a bad speaker. They stood in surprise, looking at one another. Then the dog suddenly yelped as though hit and bolted off across the street, tail tucked between his legs.

"Mac, I'm sorry!" Lester called after him. "Come back!"

But the dog was already out of sight.

Cradling his wounded hand, Lester headed off too. It was lucky he'd gotten an early start because the morning's paper route took twice as long as normal. He wasn't used to using his other hand and had to chase down more than a few errant throws.

As Lester pedaled past the forest, he kept an eye out for Mac. Shafts of sunlight shone through the canopy, casting shadows that moved as the trees swayed in the breeze. For a split second, he thought he saw a long dark coat weaving among the gnarled trunks. His heart pounded, but then it was gone. Breathing deep, he rode on. While the dark wood was far from welcoming, there was no sign of the dog or the old woman.