CHAPTER 3: PIXELS AND SECRETS
The storm has not yet passed; it has merely taken a second breath. Outside, the wind strikes the pines with renewed vigor, making the branches creak like breaking bones. Inside the cabin, the silence is interrupted only by the rhythmic crackle of the fireplace and the breathing—now deeper and more stable—of the massive white dog.
I sit at the kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of tea held between my hands. I watch the cell phone screen; the signal comes and goes like a ghost. The 4G icon flickers weakly before vanishing entirely, leaving only a dismal "X" where my connection to the world should be. I sigh with frustration, setting the phone down on the table.
"Brilliant," I mutter. "No money, and now almost no way to communicate."
Suddenly, my phone vibrates against the wooden table, startling me. What the hell, I thought I didn't have a signal, I think. I pick it up and see a faint bar of service, but that isn't what catches my attention; it's a WhatsApp message. The name on the screen makes my heart squeeze with guilt: Francesca.
Francesca has been my best friend since university. We were inseparable, despite the fact that our lives could not have been more different. She comes from a family with wealth I could never fully comprehend, while I struggle to pay the rent on a one-bedroom cabin. But Francesca never judged me; she was never like the others, and she didn't look down on me simply because I was at university on a scholarship. She is my anchor.
Opening the chat, I see a string of unread messages from the last few hours.
"Cass, please, tell me you're okay. The storm in the mountains is horrific."
"Answer me! I'm desperate."
"Something terrible has happened, Cass. My brother... he's disappeared."
My fingers fly across the on-screen keyboard.
"Francesca, I'm so sorry. I've had a bad signal. I'm fine, just a bit isolated. What do you mean your brother disappeared? The eldest one? The one you told me runs the family businesses?"
The reply is almost immediate, telling me that Francesca is glued to her phone, likely in tears.
"Yes, him. He left for a private meeting three days ago and never returned. His car was found abandoned near the route that climbs toward your area. Cass, Dad is going out of his mind. They say it could have been an accident or... something worse. We have enemies, you know that."
I freeze. Route 12 passes less than two kilometers from my house. I glance sideways at the white dog resting by the fire. An absurd thought crosses my mind, but I dismiss it instantly: Francesca's brother is a tycoon, a businessman. Though I've never seen him, he is a total mystery to me; not a wounded animal in the woods.
"Don't worry, Francesca. If he passed through here, someone must have seen him. The police must be looking for him, right?" I type, trying to sound optimistic.
"The police can't do much. We're using our own security. Cass, I'm going to send you a photo of him. It's from a week ago. Please, if you see anyone looking like him wandering the trails or if you hear anything in town, let me know immediately. It's vital."
The loading circle appears on the screen. An image is arriving.
"Come on, load..." I plead with the phone.
The circle spins and spins. My satellite internet is suffering due to the snow accumulated on the roof antenna. The progress bar moves a millimeter and stops. I look at the dog; he has lifted his head and is watching me with those fixed blue eyes, almost as if he understands that I am talking about someone important.
"It's my friend's brother, Thor. A rich, conceited guy, and surely arrogant like all millionaire men who get lost in the snow," I roll my eyes sarcastically. "He's probably roasted in some luxury hotel complaining about the service." I make faces as I talk to the animal, trying to ease the worry I feel for Francesca.
Finally, the image decides to stall; it is a total disappointment due to the abysmal speed. The phone only displays a blurred image, a chaos of horrific pixelation with distorted colors. Nothing can be made out other than the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man, or what might possibly be a dark suit. His face is invisible. The only thing that can be distinguished—a slight bit of color in his face—are two blue dots, almost the exact same shade as the eyes of the dog in the living room.
"Quite the genetics," I whisper, pressing the phone to my face. "I guess everyone in that family has those model eyes."
I try to force the image to download once more, but a connection error warning appears on the screen. Frustrated, I leave the phone on the table again.
"Francesca, the photo isn't loading right; it's super blurry. I can only tell that he's handsome and has blue eyes. But stay calm—if I see an Armani model walking through the snow half-dead, you'll be the first to know."
I receive no reply; the internet has died completely. I stand up and walk to the window. The snow continues to fall, erasing any trace of the outside world. I feel trapped, but strangely, I am not afraid. I look at the dog, who has now stood up with difficulty. His legs tremble, but his bearing is proud, almost arrogant.
"You should be lying down, Thor. The doctor said you lost a lot of blood."
The dog ignores my command. He approaches me with slow, heavy steps; the sound of his claws against the wooden floor is the only thing to be heard. He stops inches from my leg and begins to sniff me again. But this time is different. It isn't a curious sniffing; it is an inspection. He had sniffed me before, but not like this, not in this manner; it was always while he was lying down. He passes his snout over my hands, then my waist, and finally leans with force against my side. He is so large that his back reaches above my hip. I feel his heat radiating through my clothes—a heat that feels more human than animal. Well, in truth, I don't think any human would be quite that hot.
"What is it? Are you hungry?"
He looks up and lets out a short huff, almost like a laugh. Then he does something that leaves me breathless: he licks the palm of my hand, right where I have a small scar from when I was a child. His tongue is rough and warm. I shiver, not out of fear, but from a strange sense of belonging that I wouldn't know how to explain.
Could humans create a bond with a dog? Does this mean that once he's healed, he would stay with me? Hope blossoms in my chest because, at the very least, I might have no savings, but I would have a great friend for life! I laugh at my own absurd thoughts.
"You're a very strange creature, you know that?" I tell him, stroking his white ears. "You're far too polite to be a wild dog."
In my mind, the blurred image of Francesca's brother mingles for a second with the blue of the dog's eyes. I shake my head. It's the exhaustion, Cassandra. You're projecting things because you're alone, I scold myself.
I convince myself that Francesca's brother is simply another rich boy who has never spent a day hungry in his life; someone who would likely despise someone like me if we met under normal circumstances. Perhaps that's why his whole family is so worried: the poor little rich boy who is missing and wouldn't know how to survive on his own. He, on the other hand, has nothing to do with this beautiful, wounded warrior lying here with me.
That night, I go to bed thinking about how I will pay the rent. I fall asleep with the phone in my hand, hoping that Francesca's photo might decide to load sometime in the early hours. It did not.
However, what did occur was that in the middle of the night, I feel an additional weight at the foot of my bed. A large, furry, and protective weight. Instead of screaming, I curled up under the blankets, feeling—for the first time in weeks—profoundly safe.