Page 27 of Wayfarers

a flashlight (if I tried I wouldn’t be able

to snarl his leash up as much as it is).

Finally, I free him and he bounds

away, downhill. I grab the end of his leash just in time.

He jerks me forward. Whoa, Winslow, chill, buddy,

I say. We gotta get you home safe. He’s not

small and he’s frantic to get wherever

he’s going. I pick my way downhill

in the gloom, gingerly seeking purchase on the incline.

The Girl’s voice drifts to us like milkweed. Winslow!

He bucks again hard at the call, just when I’m searching

for footing. I catch my toe

on a root, tumble forward.

My forearm strikes a stone

like a hammer to an anvil and my consciousness

flashes white in an atomic detonation

of agony, decaying to a gray scourge of nausea.

Winslow loose again, running

toward the love he was built to receive,

and me, carrying my broken body to

any place that would receive me.

Sylvie

A yell in the dark, and Winslow bounds toward me.

“Sit!” I tell him, trying not to cry. And he does, his eyes full of dog regret, the gnome still in his mouth. I grab his leash quickly.

The yell again, louder this time. Just vowels, no words.

“Hello?” I call out toward the woods, toward where I saw the boy disappear. “Hello, I—I don’t know your name? Are you okay?”

“No,” the boy calls back. There’s strain in his voice. “I’m not okay.”

“Let me just put Winslow in the car and I’ll come find you! Don’t move!”

In the van, I grab my flashlight and the first aid kit under my sink. Winslow curls up on the duvet, exhausted by his stupid short adventure.

“Hello!” I call out again.