Chapter 2
Wyatt
The road into town was miserable. The valley seemed to be wearing a cloak of gloom and doom, the sky a relentless shade of gray. A mournful dusting of snow started up just as my pickup rumbled over the rocks at the last curve down the mountain.
Mr. Michael Keaton whined on the passenger seat, his warm brown eyes blinking curiously at me.
“I know it’s off schedule, but there’s a storm coming,” I murmured. “And you know how we hate being caught on the back foot up there.”
He nuzzled my arm, then licked my cheek a few times, his dog breath slobber tickling my skin. Then the whine came again.
“I don’t like it either, buddy. But we’ll be okay. Just a quick stop, and then back home where it’s safe. Promise.”
I brought the truck to a stop in front of the local grocer, snowflakes whispering onto my windshield.
“All right, Mr. Michael Keaton.” My voice struggled to retain its tone of calm reassurance. “Best behavior, got it?”
He pawed eagerly at the door handle, my talk very clearly falling on deaf ears.
“Okay.” I took a deep, steadying breath. More for myself than the golden Lab at my side.
Hugging my puffer close, I jumped out of the truck and ran around to his side, wrenching the door open.
A soft whine met my urgent waving, that eagerness from a moment ago totally gone in the face of the icy wind gusting into the truck.
“Come on, boy,” I coaxed him. “The sooner we get this over with, the better. For both of us.”
He looked at me, all sad eyes and droopy eyebrows. It was enough to make me want to clamber back into the truck and curl up with him, my face buried in his thick fur.
As if sensing my faltering resolve, the wind picked up, nudging the old Ford to rock on its axle. A reminder of what it could mean if I changed my mind about this particular stock run.
“Mr. Michael Keaton.” I fell back on my firm, no-nonsense mom voice. His ears perked in response. He knew it meant business when we got to this point. “Get your ass out of this truck and into that store. Now.”
He blinked once, and then leapt from the truck, his paws skidding on the sleet covering the parking lot. Instead of bounding off the way he liked to do, Michael Keaton stayed by my side and waited for me to close up and start toward the sidewalk.
The town, with its cozy streets and inviting storefronts, was a stark contrast to our solitary life in the mountains. Today, though, it felt pretty much the same.
Abandoned and lonely.
The bell above the door jingled as I pushed into the well-worn store, immediately beginning to thaw out. A friendly warmth enveloped us, and Tasha’s constant smile beamed from behind the counter.
“Hey, there, Mr. Michael Keaton!” she exclaimed. Bright and bubbly, just the Bs I wasn’t in the mood for.
She leaned over the counter and extended her hand, which my boy obligingly sniffed before offering a polite wag of his tail. This seemed to delight the crap out of Tasha, who descended into a fit of ‘good boys’ and giggles.
My greeting was the usual—a tight smile and stiff nod—before I escaped down the aisles.
“How’s everything up at the cabin, Wyatt?” she called after me, the grating sparkle in her voice ringing through the empty store.
I closed my eyes and stopped walking, slowing my breath. These stops were never about conversation and catch-up. And yet, every time…
“Good, thank you,” I replied over my shoulder, and continued browsing.
A familiar crunch underpinned my muted footsteps down the aisle, signifying Mr. Michael Keaton getting down to his usual kibble treat. Tasha liked spoiling him on our visits, and he liked very much that she liked it.
“Looks like it’s gearing up to be a bad one.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. She meant well, I knew that. But if I gave even the slightest hint that I wanted to be drawn into a dialogue about weather, of all things, Michael Keaton and I would be stuck here ‘til past dinner.
Cans clunked into my basket as I went down one aisle after the other with practiced purpose. I barely paused to read labels anymore, knowing everything at a glance by color alone. A testament to how long we’d been at this…
When I got to the counter with my things, Michael Keaton had thankfully provided enough of a distraction.
Tasha tilted the basket and duly started ringing up everything, her eyes skimming over the items with mild curiosity. Several packs of batteries, canned food, basic first aid stuff, and an array of non-perishables piled up on the counter, creating a makeshift fortress of preparedness.
“Did this storm turn into the end of the world, and no-one’s told me?” Tasha remarked with a good-natured chuckle.
I offered another tight-lipped smile in response, a non-committal acknowledgment of her observation. There was always a comment or two about my purchases whenever we made our quarterly trip into town, so I was used to it.
The thing is you don’t get to live in total isolation without checking these kinds of boxes. Something the townspeople wouldn’t understand.
A commotion at the door caught our attention as Sylvie blustered in with her little boy dangling from her arm, wailing his heart out. I could tell by the way he was limping that it was a bad one.
“Help, please!” Sylvie implored, her voice edged with panic. “He slipped, his knee.”
My fingers tightened around the bag of supplies on the counter, my feet nothing more than two solid blocks of concrete pinning me to the spot.
Finally, Tasha had something else to keep her busy other than my personal life, and she sprang into action, her empathy on full display as she rushed to assist the injured child and his distraught mother.
“Oh, my, let’s help you out, little Gary,” she said in a soothing tone. “Please, Sylvie, have a seat right here. I’ll patch him right up.”
Sylvie carefully lowered her son into a nearby chair, her trembling hands gently cradling his injured knee. The boy whimpered, and she whispered comforting words as she tried to assess the damage.
From where I was standing, I could clearly see the contusion with minor abrasions. Nothing serious. But I didn’t say anything.
Or do anything.
Tasha came back with a first aid kit from the back, its familiar red cross emblem a beacon of hope in the moment’s chaos. For me, though, it triggered something else entirely.
“Come on, Michale Keaton, time to go.” By making sure my arms were laden with groceries, it counted me out of the running for joining the ad hoc medical response team.
Shaking a little more than I would’ve liked, I made my way to the front of the store. Michael Keaton stopped for a good-natured sniff, sparing a lick to Gary’s tear-stained cheek.
I loved my boy, but he really didn’t do great when it came to sensing my urgency to leave a situation.
“There, there,” Tasha murmured, dabbing gauze at Gary’s knee to clean it. “See? Mr. Michael Keaton, here, is helping you be a brave boy. You’ll be A-okay in no time.”
Sylvie, her anxiety slowly easing in response to Tasha and Michael Keaton, held her son closer. Part of me felt obliged to hang around and let my golden Lab work his magic.
But the seams were already starting to come apart, and I knew that if I stayed behind any longer, there’d be a whole other mess to clean up.
“I’m really sorry, but we have to get back,” I said, offering an apologetic smile to Sylvie. “Let’s go, buddy. Time to go home.”
Mr. Michael Keaton gave a soft bark of acknowledgment and diligently padded back to my side. Without a backward glance, I made my hasty exit from the store.
The chilly air outside stung my cheeks as I stepped into the gathering storm, the sensation a stark contrast to the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions that had gripped me inside.
The winding trip back home was silent, aside from the wind rocking my truck every time we hit a gap in the tree cover. No more whining from Michael Keaton, and no more muttering from me.
A tense mental tirade kept me preoccupied the whole way.
Back in the solitude of my cabin, nestled deep within the mountains, I set about unpacking the bags.
“First,” I murmured, my hands deftly organizing the canned food and supplies, “you need to assess the extent of the injury.”
Cupboards swung open and cans clunked in punctuation to my rambling as I worked.
“Check for swelling, tenderness, deformity.”
I arranged the items with practiced precision, my focus unwavering as I recited the steps that had been ingrained in me for years.
“Next, clean abrasions. Pat dry.”
The rhythmic repetition became a comforting cadence as I moved through the cabin, each word a reassurance, calming my anxiety.
“Ice, elevation, rest…”
Then I’d start right back at the beginning, going through each step of attention I would’ve given Gary back at the store. My stacks of cans grew higher, the crate storing my backup batteries full to the brim.
“Assess the extent of the injury…” My thoughts remained stuck with the crying boy in the store.
“Check for swelling, tenderness, deformity…” Michael Keaton lifted his sad brows at me, head resting on his paws where he lay in front of the crackling fire.
He knew this dance better than anyone. “Ice, elevation, rest…”
My isolation was both a sanctuary and a prison, a paradox I had grown accustomed to. One I’d forced him to be used to as well.
But there was solace within the cozy confines of my space. The familiar routine was a lifesaver, where I could control every detail to maintain the delicate balance I’d forged with the rest of the world outside.
I was in the middle of organizing my pantry when the phone rang, the shrill sound piercing the quiet of the cabin. Startled, I nearly dropped a can of soup as I rushed to answer it.
“Hello?” My voice betrayed the unease that always seemed to linger just beneath the surface.
“Wyatt, darling, I’ve got fantastic news!” Patricia, my agent, came at me with her usual effervescence.