Beneath

35 THE WIND HAS THINGS TO SAY

NOAH

Dogs know nothing of evil. Kick them, and they'll apologize for whatever they think they did wrong. Love them, feed them, shelter them, and they'll worship you like a god.

The spacey interior is dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth, but it's like the heat can't get to the dog. Shadows dance on the walls, and the air is thick with the smell of burning wood and something faintly sweet, like cinnamon, but the little guy wouldn't know because he won't open his eyes.

I rub his velvety black ears, but it feels futile. This dog is holding on by a thread—barely.

The man who let us in—John, he eventually communicated—is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and short, white hair. There's something in the way he looks at Cam. His eyes are sharp.

Camila is lying by the fire, her body swaddled in blankets.

John sits across the room in a rocking chair, spooning oats into his mouth, his gaze locked on the fireplace. The bowl in his hands is steaming, the scent of cinnamon and apples mingling with the smoke.

I'm in the old fabric chair, holding Charlie in my lap.

And nothing's changed in an hour.

The snow outside is more like a white wall of gust, so there's no leaving anytime soon.

I try to keep my voice steady, keep my nerves under control. "We didn't mean to intrude. Just needed a place to ride out the storm."

"This isn't Middlebridge. This place exists outside of town. Nobody comes here—except her. She comes here."

"Camila," I say.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He spoons more oats into his mouth, and ignores me.

Then I see the picture on the mantle. It's John, a younger version of him, with his arm around the shoulders of a teenage girl. She's got big black curls, caramel skin, and a broad grin with gapped front teeth. She's rail-thin like a strong breeze could knock her over.

But it's Camila. It's her.

The sight of that picture throws me off, but it also gives me a strange sense of calm. Cam knows John. So, I keep myself calm. 

I take a tiny piece of the beef John fried up earlier and hold it to Charlie, hoping he'll eat. His little nose twitches. That's it. This dog, with his matted, wiry fur, bumps and sores, is on the way out. It's like he wants death.

The wooden rafters groan. I can't stop thinking about how Charlie must have felt out there, alone in the storm, wondering if anyone would come for him.

"Where'd you find him?" John asks.

"At her mother's place," I say.

John just nods, like he's heard it all before. "How'd you get that scar?"

My fingers drift up to my face, to the nasty raised line.

There's no malice in John's question, just that same flat tone he's had the entire time. Still, it rubs me the wrong way, makes me want to snap at him, to tell him to mind his own business.

"It was a long time ago. An accident. Glass, and blood, and a significant laceration across the plane of my face."

"I see," says John.

The flames crackle in the hearth, their heat finally starting to penetrate the chill in the room. But it's not enough to shake the memory that's clawing its way to the surface—the memory of the crash, the glass, the blood. The memory of my dad's voice telling me everything would be okay, even though it wasn't. He wasn't.