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I’m sitting on a train.
My tail curled around my legs, draped over the edges, fluttering in the wind. It’s so late. The snow falls, blurring in front of my eyes.
I want to go home. I want to be in bed. I want a big steak dinner and a glass of wine to top it off.
I want a lot of things.
Mostly, I’d give my heart and soul to be curled up in bed with my husband.
God, I miss him.
I miss him, and I miss being thirty-eight-years-old. I miss having, even planning for a future.
Now I’m a dog. There is no future.
There’s just cold paws and this train.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life—what little of it’s left—thinking about what-if’s. I’ve inherited the body of a Golden Retriever. I’m a nice dog. I’m on the streets, but somebody might fall in love with me.
Somebody did once. But that’s a long story.
The someone he loved is technically dead. My new name, according to the collar around my neck, is FLUKE.
I’m so tired of being cold. I thought you couldn’t get cold when you had this much fur. But I’m shaking. My shoulders rattle with it.
My teeth. My breath. I can see it in front of me. I watch it form a cloud. I think about him, wondering if he’s warm.
I think about him so much.
I want him more than steak dinners, music, parades, dancing, the Fourth of July. I want him more than I want to jump in a pool naked. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire human life.
I just wanna hold him. Is that so much?
A whine seizes in my throat.
I think about the other puppies that were in the box with me four years ago. Were they people like me, once? Or am I the only one? Am I really a FLUKE?
The old woman thought so. I helped make her money, playing games on the streets, impressing passerby. They dropped dollars in a hat. Because I’m SMART. I’m GOOD. The words nestle in my head, scratch my neck, the ghost of affection.
God, I hope she’s okay.
I really, really hope she’s okay.
My nose snuffles, but—she’s gone. She’s back in another city.
If I wanna find him, I gotta keep moving forward.
The train is fast. Faster than my paws run. I could cross the world in one night, but there are humans everywhere. Blockades, tall fences, bridges. Cars.
I think I—it wasn’t a car, exactly, but something like it.
A collision. Something big.
And then there was just a bright flash of white light, and then . . . nothing. Noise. Like being underwater, that kind of—big, loud, wavy audio. Just noise. Not anything, nothing scary . . . but not like being held, either.
I wanted someone to hold me. Put me back together.
I shake a little, shift.
It’s so cold. My whiskers are frozen.
I just have to make it to the next town. Then I can run. Running will warm me. Running will fix it.
I’ll be okay when I start running again.
I’ll get to see him again.
We’ll . . . we’ll get to see each other again.
I don’t even have words. We didn’t get to speak at the funeral, the last time we would have—I don’t know what he said or did, then. He said goodbye, probably.
I shiver. I don’t want him to say goodbye.
The train drags on, crossing the countryside. It takes so long.
I’m so cold. I just wanna be home already.
. o .
We stop outside the city.
I’ve got icicles in my fur. I can barely breathe, but the train shaking down rattles me awake.
I shake off my fur, hard. Then I stumble forward. I don’t want anybody to ask, What’s with the dog?
There’s a lot with the dog.
More than they’ll ever know. I can’t say, Hi, I’m Steve Rogers. I think I’m supposed to be here, but I’m not sure.
Can you show me where 890 Fifth Avenue is?
I can’t read. I’m not sure it would help.
I just start running. That helps.
Blood flowing, ice melting. I’m so close. I can taste it. I can see it: the Brooklyn Bridge.
I’m close to him. I’m close. I’m finally near him.
Away, away from Washington.
But New York is a big city.
I’ll find him.
I swear to God, I’ll find him.
A stranger coos at me. I bark back a hello. I’m quick, but not unfriendly. Wag the tail, keep that chin up. Can’t look unfriendly. You look unfriendly, the dog catcher catches you.
Learned that the hard way. Don’t ask.
My paws scrape the asphalt. I’m dead-set on my mission. I race cars. I chase skyscrapers.
I’m here. I’m really here. I can smell it.
I know this place. I know this place.
I whirl, start running as a sense-memory overtakes me. Cross a street, almost get slammed by a car in this body. I wonder what would happen—would I wake up human?
Or would I just go down?
Either way, I dance free and never find out.
The car bays at me. Sorry! I shout back. It comes out a bark.
I can’t speak.
It’s going to be hard, maybe impossible, to explain the situation, but not-impossible is what I’m banking on. I keep running. I run as fast as I ever have moved down street after familiar street, heart beating out of my chest.
Oh my God. I’m finally here.
After—after four years. Give-or-take. I don’t know, I don’t know, it’s hard, and then—there was the catcher-and-the-lab-and—
I slam to a halt, double back, look up.
I lunge up the stairs, look at the gear on the door.
It’s locked.
I throw myself at the wooden entrance, a bodycheck that hurts. I bark authoritatively.
No one answers me.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this hurt before, and I actually died, once.
I bark again, louder. Louder. Louder.
This can’t be happening. There’s gotta be somebody—a stranger finally shouts at me, asking about the dog, whose dog is this? I think about the dog catcher and skitter off, panting in pain, not physical.
This can’t be happening.
This—
I race back. I start scratching at the wood for all I am worth. I spot papers on the door.
I can’t read them.
I can read dark windows.
I am dying. I am dying, twice, and no one is here to hold me.
A kind stranger appears with a biscuit. I bolt.
They say dogs don’t cry.
They don’t know shit about dogs.
. o .
Sitting in Central Park—has to be, too big to be anywhere else in New York—I shake.
I can’t even form a thought.
I just shake.
They’re all dead. Or gone. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t know where they are. I don’t know how to get to them.
I’m Lost.
I sit in the cold, wet snow, and I shake.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
For the first time in four years—I’m just a dog, and I’m dead, and I don’t know what to do.
I scratch at the snow with my face, trying to rub the noise out of my head.
A whine builds in my throat. It wants to be a scream.
Dogs scream. But some dogs know to keep their mouths shut, so the catcher don’t catch them.
A low voice whistles at me. I still. My soul freezes over, my face still covered in crushed snow.
Then a melodious voice says, “Hey, bub.” I think, It can’t be. I pop my head up, and—
It’s . . .
“Hey.” Tony crouches. He’s got coat, gloves, whole nine yards on.
It’s that cold. He’s that beautiful.
I stare at his face. He looks so different. He looks—he’s missing color. He’s still my everything.
I feel it. The connection.
“Hey,” he repeats. He offers a gloved hand. I stare at it, him, mesmerized.
I shake off briskly. He flinches back a little as snow flies everywhere, then stays very still as I drop my chin onto his palm. “You’re—” he begins, then pauses, as I stare at him.
I am as hungry as I have ever been for one more second of this.
It’s me. It’s me. Please tell me you know me.
I love you. I have traveled so far to find you. I would cross forever to find you again.
I missed you so much.
The gloved hand cups around, ruffles an ear. It is meant to be dismissive. I do not break the gaze. Finally, Tony reads, “Fluke.”
I chuff once, acknowledgment. I have to give feedback.
I want to say, That’s not my name. Please say my name.
“Okay,” says Tony. “All right. Let’s get you—”
I bark again, louder. He frowns, returning to his crouch. I press my face against his palm. I will it into existence.
“What’s with you?” he asks. “Hmm?”
A sudden, catastrophic longing overcomes me. I realize, as I press into the proverbial glass, nearer and farther than I have ever been, the magnitude of the loss. I can feel the hint of a wedding ring underneath his glove. I slide my chin to his knee, beleaguered.
Bewildered, he says, “Fluke?”
I will always love you.
I say nothing. I am starting to shake. He strokes a hand over my back, saying aloud, “C’mon. C’mon, let’s—get you inside.”
No. No, I don’t wanna go.
I just wanna stay with you.
He tries to stand again. I slide away.
There’s snow around us. There’s snow around us.
It’s the only thing I have.
I will never forgive myself if I never try.
Frantic, I snuffle around. I dig my snout in the snow, rake a line.
S is hard. T is worse.
He’s getting impatient. “All right, bub,” he says, mistaking my maneuvers for play. I bark, twice, and snuffle more frantically, no longer caring about precision.
S-T-E-V-E.
I step back. My heart drops. It’s a mess. A blur.
It’s illegible.
He’s moving away.
With a frustrated snarl, I lope ahead of him, diving for the snow again.
I don’t make the same mistake twice.
He watches, this time, as I deliberately carve the T. Perhaps it is the intent horizontal stripe, followed by the steep vertical line, that catches his sharp eye. I plant the sweeping S next.
He eyes me. I stare back at him rigidly.
“Somebody trained you well,” he says at last. There’s a strange note in his voice.
He’s catching on. But he’s following his heart. It says, Be doubtful.
I am almost shaking, breathing fast, as I lunge for another patch. I draw another S. It is my worst yet, but he is still watching as I hesitatingly, painstakingly draw an R beside it.
It’s shaky. But I can feel how his breathing shallows.
He whispers, “That’s not funny.”
I bark twice, rebuking, desperate. I know it’s not. It’s not funny, none of this is. I look around for a fresh patch, I can still try, I can still—
He crouches to a single knee.
I still, I stare at him.
His eyes are warm, coffee brown. He holds out a hand. I put my paw in it immediately. He drops it, seethes, “That’s not funny.”
I drop to a lie down position, as non-threatening as possible.
I’m begging. I’m desperate. I need him to understand.
I look up at him, then the snow directly in front of me.
I dip my nose down and draw a simple circle. Slash two diagonal lines through it. One line across the top finishes the reactor.
It’s barely an imitation. A kid could do better.
But for a dog, it ain’t half bad.
When I look back up at him, there are tear streaks on his face. He has a gloved hand over his mouth. I want to jump to my feet and hug him. I’m afraid if I move an inch, he’ll take off.
I stay perfectly still, lying belly-down on the snow, waiting.
“Steve,” he croaks.
I bob my head once emphatically.
He just drops. He doesn’t kneel; he falls. His arms come around my neck. I press my forehead against his chest. All a dog can do, but—surrounded by him, the feel of his heartbeat, the feel of his arms around me—
It’s heaven.
I breathe in hard, one last
Big
Breath.
I know why I came back.
. o .
It’s to lie in the sun and feel the warmth on our bellies.
To listen to him talk. Breathe out the dandelion fuzz, and jump in pools, and bite into ice cream cones, and relish.
It’s really good to be alive again.
To be human again.
Tony says, “I don’t even like dogs. You just looked so . . . sad.”
I put my arms around his waist and squeeze. I’m never going to make up for lost hugs. But: “Love you, too,” I say, chin over his shoulder like it should be, cheek-to-cheek.
I sway. We dance.
Maybe it’s just a short dream. Compared to all that darkness—what could possibly be out there.
But I’d run all night, ride cold trains for the rest of my life, just to spend the next ten minutes dancing with him.