Phonetic

Doggy!

India.

Was that Foxtrot? Goddamn, I miss her.

She was always my favourite, and she still is.

I just... I miss her a lot, but I think she'll kill me. My sister's gonna kill me. Or I'll have to kill her.

In the diminishing rain of the sunrise, I kick stones across the pavement with my hightops. I like these shoes. Not the 'like' that I like Foxtrot with, but the 'like' as in like your favourite pair of shoes.

I tuck my hands into the vast uni-pocket across the front of my hoodie and lock my fingers together. Now I'm alone, I need to hold my own hand. I keep my face low down so the breeze, which is progressing into a hurricane, doesn't take my hood back and allow the rain to hit my face.

I don't like it when it rains on my face. It makes it look like I'm crying.

I can't cry. Foxtrot said to me, 'India, you cry, and I'll kill you.' That was the last thing she ever said to me before we split. She was probably just trying to make the best of the worst possible situation, and it didn't work. She always did that, specifically with me since I'm the youngest of the twenty-six.

I was one when the Crazies adopted me, and they're all I ever knew of life. They never seemed that bad to me, and when I asked Foxtrot why they're called 'the Crazies', she told me it was because they're crazy, and we shouldn't have to have regular injections.

I only had one every two days, and I've had them ever since I can remember. It was just routine, like how you get up in the morning. I'd be having one in few hours most likely, and I reckon it's gonna feel weird not to. Maybe it's just the fact I'm going to start decaying unless I kill someone sinking in.

I pass the broken window of an abandoned house in front of a field that smells like poop. A crack runs straight down the centre of my face, splitting my features into pairs, apart from my eyes because, you know, there's two of them anyway.

"Hey, India!" I cheer, just like Foxtrot would've. I take a deep breath, pulling the hood back over my head as it attempts to slip off.

I can't imitate her. She's so much prettier than me, and funnier, and has this certain voice that turns shivers to smiles. I loved her.

She decided that for the both of us to survive as long as possible, we'd split. And if we were to ever meet, she'd never raise her gun, so I'd have to. One of us would have to die.

"I miss you, India," I mumble to the glass, imagining her in its place. I hope she misses me. "I miss you, India. It was a mistake for us to split up."

I stroke the black square on my wrist. "You can  be my friend as well, if you want. We're gonna be spending a lot of time together anyway."

It takes me a while to eventually notice the wagging ball of fluff straight through the busted window.

"Hello?" I question, taking a step back.

It doesn't respond.

"My name's India... I always wanted dog. But the Crazies thought I'd kill it or something. But I don't live with the Crazies anymore. So, I guess I can get a dog now."

The dog waddles up to the window, placing it's two front paws on the ledge and grinning at me with his stretched snout.

"Maybe, just until I find Foxtrot -" I stop as it occurs to me that if I do find Foxtrot, I have to kill her. I can't find Foxtrot. "Will... Will you be my new sister?"

I take the gun from my trousers, and flick the switch and pull back the slide, just like in training. I target the dog. "Don't move," I whisper, pinging a bullet at the glass, sending my ears a quick rattle that, no matter how many times I pull a trigger, I will never get used to.

The window shatters in a magnificent display of emotion. And the dog stumbles back and dashes out of sight before I can tell her I was never aiming for her.

I just don't know how to break glass.

Screeching bounces around the house as the collie sprints in between rooms and does a three-sixty every time we met eyes.

I sit in one of the chairs at an old wooden table, playing with a salt-shaker set in the middle. I tip it upside, and set out writing my name in the salt as neatly as possible in cursive because it looks nicer from a distance.

With passing time, after having written my name out four times and resorted to doing it with the pepper instead because the salt ran out, the dog returns with its head near to the crying floorboards, ears back, and tail low.

"Sorry. I forget people aren't used to guns. I'm really hungry, where's the fridge?"

I raid it comfortably. I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. My first instinct is to go straight for some morning orange juice and a few slices of ham.

The dog sits at my feet, the tip of its ear sweeping my leg. It's so soft.

I place the packet of ham on the floor, and then the sausages. Basically, anything that looked remotely like meat ended up in a queue on the floor for the dog. I ate whatever remained until my stomach growled at me to stop before I throw up.

I set myself on the floor with my legs crossed in front of the dog, running my hand front its coat as it tears through the food. "I'd be hungry if my owners abandoned me too." I freeze for a second. If the owners don't live here anymore, then why's there still food in the fridge? And why's there cows and fresh poo in the fields?

"Dog, I think we need to leave." I pick up the plate of leftover lamb that remains from under its nose, and wander back to the window, tempting the dog to follow me by shaking the food and whistling.

With a significant degree of reluctance the dog follows me all the way to the window, where I lift her out.

I place the plate down, not wanting to steal from whoever lives here and allowing the collie to finish.

When I walk away, I constantly check behind me, to see if it follows. By the time I'm at the edge of the property and the dog still hasn't moved, I begin the whistling again, and it's ears reach for the sky. It trots toward me gleefully. I take another few strides, whistling the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and it takes each step with me.

"Can I call you Fox? I know you're a dog, but then maybe I'll find it easier that way."