I do everything I can for the dog. I clean his wound and heft sections of his heavy body up so I can wrap him in a blanket. I bandage him and stroke his head while he softly groans in his sleep.
"Poor puppy," I say, even though he obviously isn't a puppy. He may not even be a dog. "Do you think Nick's okay?"
The dog huffs out a sleepy breath. I shiver because there's a draft by the door and I ease the dog's head off my leg, placing it on a soft pillow I'd yanked off the couch. He's so huge.
"Are you a werewolf?" I whisper, ashamed to be even asking it.
He blinks open one eye and stares at me.
"I'm sorry I woke you." I lean down and kiss him on the top of his muzzle. "You feeling okay?"
Checking his bandage, I pull back the blanket a little.
"I think you've stopped bleeding. That's good. I'm going to go check outside. I'll be right back. I'm. really worried about this Nick guy. Don't get jealous, though. I'm also really worried about you."
The dog tries to lift his head but he's too tired, I guess, too worn out from his injury. I settle him with my hand. "You rest, sweetie."
He is so cute, with all that shaggy hair and those big canine shoulders and his jowly jowls. Maybe we can keep him. Betty's house would be a lot less lonely with a dog around all the time. And aren't all Maine people supposed to have dogs? I think that's in the stereotype book along with junked-out trucks in the front yard and a front porch held up with cinder blocks and lobster traps.
I lift up a jowl to check out his teeth. They're clean and white and huge. The dog opens his eye and stares at me reproachfully.
I let go of his jowl. "Sorry. Way too invasive, I know."
He wags his tail, just once.
"Thanks for leading me home," I say. I wish he could understand me.
He wags his tail again.
"I'll be right back."
Standing up for real, I check that the front door is locked in case any serial killers want to stop by and then I peek out the window. The snow covers everything, absolutely everything. Nick's car still sits there.
The wheels are buried under. I swallow and pick up the phone book, bring it back into the kitchen, tiptoeing by the now-snoring dog. His jowls shake when he blows out the air.
"You'll be okay."
I find Nick's number in the phone book under "Anna and Mark Colt" and call. There's no answer.
I call Gram back but I can't get through. I just go right to her voice mail I call the dispatcher, who says she's on her way home.
"Good," I say and then remember to be polite.
"Busy night?"
"You're telling me," she says hurriedly as another line rings in the background.
"Any sign of Jay?" I ask.
"The Dahlberg boy?" Josie sighs. "Nope. You sit tight, Zara honey. The deputy was all the way out on Deer Isle but he's coming your way and Betty is too."
"Can they hurry?"
"They are, sweetheart. The roads are bad."
"Okay."
"You keep your chin up, girl. And don't worry too much. Nick Colt is a resourceful young man. A real keeper, that boy. You hear me?"
I bite my lip.
"You hear me?" she asks again.
"Yep."
"Damn. I have another call. You sit tight, Zara."
What else am I suppose to do? "Yep."
Useless and sighing, I hang up the phone, stare at the dirty white thread I'd knotted around my finger.
My dad would tell me to calm down, that it was my overactive imagination making mountains out of molehills, or some other silly dad cliche.
I miss silly dad cliches.
"Everything will be fine," I tell the kitchen. A huge gust of wind slams against the house, howling. The lights flicker, turn off for about three seconds, and then come back on again.
The digital display on the microwave flashes the green neon time as 00:00, which seems appropriate. A tree branch scrapes across the window. I jump and grit my teeth.
That is it.
I am going to have to go back out there and look for Nick, but this time I am going to be prepared.
Watch out, potential psycho freaks, competent Zara is ready.
I haul open the door to the basement so I can grab some of Grandma Betty's old boots and a good winter parka, and maybe some wood in case the power goes out for good and I have to start a fire. In my crazed rush, I stub my toe on one of the trillion railroad ties that Betty's got stored down there, and then I slam on one boot, then another, and shove a hat on my head. I pound back up the stairs again, boots making me sound heavy and big against the pale wooden stairs. I bite my lip and put the parka on inside out. I have to reach inside and down to zip it up. The thread on my finger catches on the zipper and pulls a little, loosening it. It's starting to fray.
"I should not be worrying about a string," I announce to the house.
The house creaks with the wind, which probably means it agrees.
I haul up three logs and balance them in one arm against my side. Wood scrapes stick to the parka.
With my other hand I grab the flashlight just as the lights flicker again and go off.
With my luck it wouldn't be all that surprising if the batteries don't work, but the light clicks on with a powerful beam.
"Thanks, Betty," I whisper.
Grandma Betty is the type of prepared lady who would always have fresh batteries in her flashlight.
I stomp up the rest of the stairs and dump the wood on the kitchen counter. The air smells of mashed potatoes and something else, something raw and woodsy.
Fear shivers against my skin, like spiders crawling. Heart racing, I swing the flashlight around the kitchen, terrified of what I might find. The microwave's digital display doesn't flash anything now. It's dark and silent and dead.
I back up and open the silverware drawer, pulling out the biggest knife I can find, the one you cut big vegetables with. It has a large sharp silver blade and a black heavy handle.
A sound comes from the living room. My fingers tightens around the handle. Maybe it's just the dog.
Or maybe it isn't.
I slide my feet across the wood floor trying to make as little noise as possible, but it's hard in Gram's clodhopper boots. One hand clutches the knife, ready to stab. The other hand holds the flashlight, which is long and heavy and could probably be a good weapon.
Right?
One step forward, another, and then I swing the light around the room and right into the eyes of a large naked guy wrapped in a blanket.
Hormephobia fear of shock I scream. The flashlight bangs to the floor and rolls away, shutting itself off on impact.
"Zara?" His voice breaks through the darkness.
"Nick, Jesus. You scared the hell out of me," I say, kneeling down on the floor and trying to find the flashlight. I grab it and turn it back on, my heart beating a million times a minute. How can a heart stand it? "You're naked."
"Really, I couldn't tell," he jokes weakly.
"Why are you naked?"
I shine the light on his face, not the lower parts, I swear. He raises his arm to shield his eyes, so I lower the beam a little, hitting the smooth lines of his chest and abs. He has the blanket that I'd put on the dog draped around him toga style, so I can only see half of his very fine physique.
That is not the point.
He nods slowly as I stalk toward him. I stand below him and soften. The way his eyes shadow is pitiful.
"Are you cold?"
I reach out and touch him with the hand that still holds the knife.
"You're warm." My voice comes out frightened and I back up a step. I flash the light onto the doorknob.
I locked it. I know I locked it. "How did you get in here?"
"The door," he says.
I back up some more. "I locked the door."