CHAPTER 2: THE PRICE OF A LIFE
The grayish light of dawn begins to filter through the cabin windows, revealing the wreckage of my living room. The scent of iron and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering aroma of burnt wood. I wake with a start on the sofa, my neck stiff and the small air pistol still clutched tightly against my chest. My eyes immediately seek out the silhouette beneath the blankets in front of the fireplace. He is still there. The enormous white dog hasn't moved, but his breathing is an erratic whistle that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
"You're still alive," I whisper, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
I stand up carefully and approach with caution to peel back a corner of the blanket. I see that the makeshift bandage is soaked through with a pinkish, yellowish fluid. My hand-sewn stitches served their purpose in stopping the massive hemorrhaging, but it isn't enough. The skin around the diagonal tissue is hot—too hot. Infection is beginning its banquet. I reach for my phone and check the time: nearly five in the morning. I scroll through my contacts for the number of a rural veterinarian who once helped a neighbor with a horse—Dr. Miller. I know he'll charge a fortune to come out here in the middle of a blizzard, and even more to treat an animal of this magnitude. I log into my online banking; the number on the screen hurts more than the cold. Eight hundred and fifty dollars. That is everything I have. The rent, the electricity, and the food for the next two months while I find a new job.
"Either I eat, or you live," I muse aloud, feeling the knot in my throat tighten until it aches.
I look at the dog. In this state of vulnerability, he seems almost small despite his actual size. If I let him die, I'll get my money back, but I would lose my soul. A dry sob escapes my lips; with my heart hammering in the throes of an imminent anxiety attack, I dial the number.
"Hello?" a raspy voice answers on the third ring.
"Dr. Miller, it's Cassandra Evans. I have an emergency at the cabin on Route 12. It's a very large dog; he has a deep wound. Please, come. I'll pay you whatever it takes."
Two hours later, Dr. Miller enters my home, shaking the snow from his boots. When he sees the animal in front of the fireplace, he stops dead. His face, etched with wrinkles from years of rugged work, tightens slightly, as if he is evaluating something that doesn't quite fit.
"Cassandra..." he murmurs, setting his medical bag on the floor with a dull thud. "This is an unusual animal. Very large."
"I know," I reply, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "But I couldn't just leave him to die outside."
The doctor kneels and examines my needlework. He grunts something unintelligible as he removes the stained gauze.
"You did a good job closing him up, but look at this," he says, pointing to the wound with a latex-gloved finger. "This isn't a bite from another animal. It's a clean cut made with something extremely sharp and, judging by the reaction of the flesh, it seems to have been in contact with some kind of irritant. It's damaging the tissue from the inside out."
My first instinct is to look at him with irritation. Did he really think I was so stupid as to not realize that gash wasn't a bite? I inhale deeply to try and steady myself—a feat I manage surprisingly quickly—and focus on what matters most. Who would attack a dog with something like that in the twenty-first century? It felt like something ripped from a nightmare.
"I have to debride the wound, administer high-spectrum antibiotics, and start an IV," the doctor declares. "It's going to cost you, girl. Between the travel, the anesthesia, and the medicine: six hundred dollars."
I close my eyes. Six hundred out of eight hundred and fifty. I feel the floor vanish beneath my feet; panic constricts my lungs. I am signing my own eviction notice. I take one more deep breath.
"Do it," my voice is barely a whisper. "Please, save him."
Since we are already here, I will at least make sure all the effort is worth it.
While the doctor works, I force myself to watch. I see him clean the diagonal wound that mars the animal's majesty. The dog, under the effects of local anesthesia and sheer exhaustion, does not open his eyes, but when the doctor applies a disinfecting liquid, he lets out a whimper that breaks my heart. I move closer without thinking and rest my hands upon his massive head. His fur is coarse, yet strangely delicate.
"Shhhh, it's almost over... Thor," I tell him, using the name I've given him in my head.
In that moment, something extraordinary happens. The dog, still in his state of semi-consciousness, tilts his head just a few millimeters, seeking the contact of my palm. His nostrils flare with force; he inhales my scent—the aroma of my cheap lavender soap, the trace of fear, and the warmth of my skin. It is a deliberate movement, as if he were engraving my essence into his deepest memory.
I only hope you aren't doing this so you can recognize me later and eat me.
"Seems like he recognizes you," Dr. Miller comments, observing the scene with curiosity. "Not all of them react like that, especially when they're hurting."
"I suppose he knows I don't want to hurt him."
"Or perhaps he's decided that you belong to him now," the doctor lets out a dry chuckle as he finishes the bandaging. "Here are the instructions. You need to change the dressing every twelve hours and give him these medications hidden in food. If he survives the next forty-eight hours, he'll make it."
When the doctor leaves, I am left alone with my new and charismatic guest. My bank account is practically at zero. I go to the kitchen and open the pantry: three cans of tuna, a box of pasta, and a bit of rice. That is all I have left to survive for who knows how long.
Anxiety strikes me again. I sit on the kitchen floor, hugging my knees, and begin to cry silently. I cry for the job I lost, for the money I spent, and for the madness of having a dying dog in my living room. Suddenly, I feel a gaze upon me. I stand up and walk into the living room. The dog has opened his eyes. They are those electric blue eyes that had captivated me beneath the snow, and now they watch me fixedly with an intensity that feels entirely uncommon. There is no trace of aggression—I think that's a good sign. Instead, there is a strange calm and something more... a profound attentiveness.
I approach and sit beside him, maintaining a prudent distance.
"You've left me penniless, Thor," I tell him with a sad smile as a tear rolls down my cheek. "I truly hope you're worth it. As long as you don't eat me and don't abandon me, I think I'll be happy."
The dog does something incredible: he stretches his neck with evident effort and rests his snout upon my knee. It isn't an attack; it is a gesture. I feel his hot breath through the fabric of my pants. He begins to rub his cheek against my leg in a slow, almost rhythmic manner, leaving his scent upon me.
I am going to assume he is saying thank you. I stay by his side for a while longer. Eventually, I get up and find something to eat. I spend the rest of the day cleaning the house, disinfecting every surface so he doesn't catch any further infection.
The silence of the mountain feels different now. It's no longer just me against the world; there's a heavy, breathing presence in the room that changed everything for the price of six hundred dollars and my future security. I look at him one last time before the sun sets, wondering what kind of "angel" I've truly brought in from the storm.