And so, the ritual began: proofing the last brief, arranging papers into neat stacks, and scribbling reminders for tomorrow. Organization bred tranquility, which Myles loved. His propensity for routine was just shy of compulsion, or at least that’s what he told himself.

Taking a last look across his office, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase, turned off the light, and walked down the hall toward the elevator.

He saw the corner of a janitor’s cart in a side office. “Hey, Burt. Gonna catch the game tomorrow?”

Tall and thin, Burt peeked from behind the door, pulling out an earbud, “You know it. G’night, Myles.”

“See ya,” Myles said as the elevator door opened and slowly closed, taking him down to the nearly empty parking garage. Flinging his jacket over his shoulder, he walked across the painted lines and unfilled spaces. Two high-pitched beeps pierced the silence, the car door released its lock with a snap, and in a moment, Myles drove out of the building.

He opened his window and inhaled the cool spring-evening air. Flowering trees in full bloom lined the streets, filling the air with their scent; birds settling in for the night chirped relentlessly.

It’s a top down kinda evening, Myles thought, pushing the button that brought forth a melody of hums and clinks as the roof receded. It never got old, that feeling inspired by driving with the top down, pushing through the breeze and feeling its playful tickle on his face and neck. On rare occasions, when the air was chilly, he granted himself the indulgence of putting the top down and running the heater. But tonight was perfect.

The streets, so busy just a few hours before, were now empty gray trails leading to endless possibilities. He stopped for a cappuccino, then took the long way home into the hills for the best view of the sunset, driving through narrow winding streets toward the last street before the last hill leading to the last house—the one he shared with Roxie.

What to make for dinner? he mused. She loves bruschetta. I’ll do that. Quick and easy. His beloved Roxie was untouched by vanity, and her eyes sparkled when she laughed. She’d hold his gaze until he couldn’t help but grin with childlike abandon. She paid attention to him in ways he cherished. At parties when he’d catch her glance from across the room, she always responded with a coy smile and wink. She made him feel adored, and he tried to make her feel the same.

Myles had learned from the people who’d come and gone from Roxie’s life before him. She wanted so little. Small wonder that, as some people demanded more of her time and attention and requests became expectations, she turned away from them. The people who stayed in her life wanted nothing more from her than the moment they were in. Myles worked at being one of those people, and he was brilliant at it.

He glanced up at the stars, sprinkles of luminous dust in the dark sky, their brilliance dimmed by the lights of the sparkling city below. He took a sip of his cappuccino, the perfect temperature now, creamy, frothy sweetness and warmth. The stars, the lights, the coffee, the air, the drive. He couldn’t help but let out a satisfied moan.

God, is there anything better?

His moment of bliss was disrupted by a glimpse of fur on the side of the road. A dog, outstretched and unmoving, its mottled white hair fluttering.

“Oh sh–!” He slammed on the brakes, pulled onto the gravely edge, got out of the car, and ran to the dog. No collar, panting weakly, eyes barely open. “Hey buddy, are you okay? Ah, no, huh. Come on, let’s get some help.”

Myles retrieved his jacket from the car and stretched it out next to the dog, planning to slide it beneath the dog, then carry it to the passenger seat and make a quick downhill drive to the animal hospital he passed almost every day. He began to implement the plan, gently lifting the dog and slowly scooching the coat under the dog’s shoulder, then side, legs, and head, until the coat was completely under the fluffy, panting pup.

The dog whimpered when he raised the two ends of his jacket.

“It’s okay,” Myles said softly, almost as a song, “it’s okay, buddy, you’re going to be fine.”

As he lifted the dog and began to stand straight, his left toe slid just an inch or two on the gravel. Looking down, he realized how steeply the shoulder of the road plunged into the gully below. He felt his foot slip again. Feet at completely different heights and angles, he swayed back and forth desperately trying to hold onto the dog.

“Shit… Fuck, piss.”

Bereft of any firm foothold, Myles screamed as he slid down the hill, in his wild tumble letting go of the dog. Stones dislodged in his descent pelted his shoulders and face. He reached desperately for anything, dried branches, rocks, the ground, but nothing stopped his momentum.

Thud. Something hard hit his head. Tan dirt, gray rocks, bits of green shrubs, the indigo sky, the silvery moon, all muted and blurred. He felt his body slipping away or was he slipping away from his body?

Limp as a ragdoll, he could hear the scrape of his chest and legs against the hillside. Sight, sound, feeling grew more distant. Everything was dark. No sound. No sight. No feeling. Nothingness.

Roxie got home just after midnight and quickly ran to the kitchen to find Myles. Smiling, she lunged through the doorway—and came to a halt. Strange, she thought: there was no sign of Myles, no jacket slung over the back of a chair, nothing cooking. She reached for her phone, no text. Myles worked late, but if he stayed later than usual, he’d always text.

Roxie enjoyed her independence but that didn’t mean she was unreliable or uncaring. She loved Myles’ considerate nature. He had a way of letting her know he was thinking about her without hovering or controlling. He was her best friend, and she loved watching him read, sip coffee, do anything really. And she could say anything to him – even ask to be alone for a few days; she needed that sometimes.

Her phone rang. She hesitated, an unaccountable dread sweeping over her. She had a terrible feeling that life as she knew it was coming to an end.

“Hello.”

“Ma’am, is this Roxie Sandrale?”

“It is.”

“This is Officer Reynolds at the Crestview Sheriff’s Department. I’m afraid there’s been an accident involving Myles Trafaly. You’re listed as his emergency contact.”

“Is he all right?”

“Ma’am, no. I’m very sorry. I need you to come down to the station as soon as possible.”

No. No. No, she thought. He’s fine, he’s fine.

Feeling between worlds, possibilities, spaces, times, she got in her car and drove to the address the sheriff gave her, all the while thinking desperately: nothing is wrong, he’s fine, everything is okay.

Myles opened his eyes. Everything was out of focus, as if he were looking through a milky lens. He blinked over and over hoping to clear the fog. Someone in a white lab coat walked by. The place smelled weird, antiseptic mixed with something. He was overwhelmed by the strength of the odor. He could smell everything in the room. Sweat? Antiseptic. And what? He took another deep breath. Wet dog?

He was stunned by how acutely he could hear: every clank and clink from metal on metal, human voices and animal whimpers. Staring through the fog affecting his vision he saw cages stacked atop each other.

What the fuck? thought Myles. Where am I? What happened? How’d I get here?

He looked down and saw a dog’s leg with an IV inserted. He recognized the white fur and spots of brown, black, and gray.

Okay. I’m with the dog. I don’t feel good. I’ll rest a minute.

He closed his eyes. I must have brought the dog to the vet and then fell asleep. He breathed deeply and felt groggy. I don’t remember texting Roxie. Another breath and he sank into the soft fabric beneath him. I hope I did, or she’ll be worried. He drifted into sleep.

When he awoke, he felt better. How strange that he couldn’t remember how he ended up wherever he was. He remembered the injured dog and that he was going to take it to the vet, but nothing after that.

I feel weird.

He lifted his hands to rub his head but couldn’t feel his fingers—or see them. He raised his head and tried to call the doctor or whoever it was in the white coat, but he could only emit a whimper. He tried again but all he heard was rumbling mixed with high pitched whines.

“Good boy,” said a soothing voice. He felt a hand run over his head. “You’re okay.”

Myles tried to sit up. He had to tell them something was wrong.

“Lie down,” said that same soothing voice. A gentle hand ran from the top of his head to his back. “You can’t get up yet. Here, puppy, this will help.” He felt a pinch on his thigh, his vision blurred, sounds blended.

Wait. What… What’s going on?

Myles tried to yell for help, but his yelps quickly diminished into raspy whispers. He drifted into foggy oblivion.

Roxie arrived at the police station. Nothing seemed real. She was led through doorways. Asked questions. Taken in a squad car to a cold, empty place. Gray hallways. Clicks of shoes on concrete. A room, a man, a gurney, a sheet. She didn’t look at anything else. She didn’t want to remember.

She saw Myles, his sweet face and soft hair. Scratches and gashes. Dirt. Bruises. Back to the squad car. Back to the station. More questions. A bag of Myles’ effects. His crisp navy-blue jacket that was so clean and fresh yesterday morning now dirty and torn.

“One last thing, Ma’am,” said the sheriff. “You can pick up your dog at this vet’s office.” He handed her a small piece of paper: Skyview Veterinary, 224 Crestwood Vista.

“Dog?”

The officer nodded. “There was a dog on scene, Ma’am, and dog hair all over the jacket you said belonged to Myles. I assumed it was his dog.”

“No, he didn’t… that’s curious.”

Roxie felt numb. Back in her car, she raised Myles’ jacket to her face and inhaled. The ruined jacket with its trace of Myles’s scent was all she had. She put it on the seat beside her and stared blankly out the window. Yesterday morning she’d seen Myles, now he’s gone. What happened? Her life before that phone call seemed so far away.

She wished that she hadn’t seen him empty, covered in scrapes, blood, and bruises. She imagined herself bandaging his wounds, talking to him, bringing him back to life. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t think. She drove home slower than usual, her mind wandering. Dog? What was Myles doing?

At home she collapsed onto the bed, too tired to think, too numb to feel. She resisted the haunting emptiness she knew was waiting for her. I’ll wake up in a few hours and Myles will be next to me, she thought. We’ll make smoothies and go to work, and everything will be fine.

She lay quietly watching the sunrise through the bedroom window. A couple hours later, she got up and showered. She made coffee and toast but could barely finish a bite. She had to get to the vet.

Myles felt himself breathe, became aware of sights and sounds, tried desperately to think his way out of this mess before his thoughts got cloudy again. He realized he was looking through metal bars. Am I in a cage? Did they drug me? What’s going on?

A woman with a pink and blue smock with kittens on it walked past, then a man in jeans and a green and yellow t-shirt with a droopy-eyed cartoon bulldog on the front, followed by a woman in a white lab coat. Across from him rows of cages were stacked atop each other. A few had a cat or dog inside. Cats mewed and pawed the metal. Dogs panted, watching cautiously the commotion around them.

Uh! There’s that smell again. Urine? Soap? Sweat?

Then a fierce, unnerving thought came to him. His eyes widened and he gasped for air.

I’ve been kidnapped and drugged.

He panicked and began to cry out— guttural sounds, not quite howls, but more than whimpers. He felt it this time. He was making the sound. He looked down. It was his leg with the IV. He had four…paws. Paws. What is going on?

The woman in the kitten smock came over and opened the door. She patted Myles and scratched under his chin and behind his ear.

Ah, that feels good. No! Get off me. I’m not a dog. I’m not a dog. But the only sound he made was a rumbling whimper.

The woman removed the IV and stroked Myles again. Then, another pinch on his thigh. She closed the door; the latched clicked. “Hey!” he barked.

Fuzziness set in again. He tried to stay alert, but his thoughts floated into murky dreaminess.

“The doctor will be out in a moment,” a receptionist told Roxie at the vet’s. “Have a seat, we’ll get your fur baby in just a minute.”

Fur baby, thought Roxie. I don’t even know this dog. What if he’s crazy?

A door opened and a stout short-haired woman approached, “Dr. Tina” engraved on her nametag. A woman in pink pants and a colorful smock with puppies in different poses as if they were dancing trailed behind the vet holding the dog.

“Your dog will be fine,” Dr. Tina said. “He had a rough time last night and was really dehydrated and too thin. His hair was so matted in places that we had to shave some spots. No broken bones. He’s a lucky puppy.”

“He’s not my dog.”

The vet stared at her for a moment, then said, “I see. Well . . . this is interesting. Could you tell me, then, why you’re here? He’s been through so much, I was hoping his owner—or at least a responsible caregiver—would take him. We do our best, but. . . .We can post him as lost but without tags or a chip, I’m not sure we’ll have much luck.”

Roxie looked at the dog. Myles must have planned to help him; otherwise, why would they have been found together, why was Myles’ jacket covered with dog hair? I can’t leave him here, she thought. He was with Myles when he died.

Myles saw Roxie through his drugged daze and wagged his tail.

“He sure seems to know you,” Dr. Tina said, looking from the dog to Roxie with arched eyebrows.

“He’s my boyfriend’s dog.” The words cut through her chest into her stomach. “He was… they were… in an accident. I guess… that means the dog… should come with me.”

The proper paperwork signed, Dr. Tina gave Roxie the dog’s medicines and instructions for his care—words that flooded over her and ran together: “One with every meal…easiest to put in food… only once a day.”

Roxie nodded as if she understood and hoped, when the time came, she’d decipher the instructions on each bottle.

After tucking the bottles and papers into her bag, Roxie stretched out her arms to accept the wounded dog. He lifted his head, revealing light blue eyes, then dropped his head onto her arm, sighed, and closed his eyes.

She walked carefully to the car, unlocked the doors, gingerly opened a back door with the fingertips of one hand, and settled the dog gently on the back seat.

I should have brought a blanket.

He lay there, as apparently comfortable as he was when she first took him into her arms.

She closed the door quietly and walked around the car. In the driver’s seat, she fastened her seat belt, checked the mirror, placed her keys in their proper spot—habitual movements that even her mental fog couldn’t disrupt.

Starting the car, she glanced at Myles’ jacket. Her gut tightened, her breath locked. She reached over and pulled it to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Myles,” she cried into the jacket. “Myles.”

Roused by Roxie’s cries, Myles raised his head. Through the stupor of drugs and exhaustion, he spoke as clearly as he could. “I’m here, Roxie, I’m right here.”

Hearing the dog’s distressed whimper, Roxie let go of Myles’ jacket. “It’s all right, boy,” she said. “Hold on, we’re going home.”

Deep Ends

by Roberta Schultz

    Deep Ends explores the fragile balance between treading life’s turbulent waters and mastering a survival float. A father invents his brand of cross-chest carry to save himself and his grandson from drowning in a “current of light and sound.” A mother tosses her young daughter into the deep end of a public pool in hopes she will learn to swim. A daughter becomes a lifeguard, a teacher inspired by Dolly Parton’s “can-do” attitude, and an empowerment drummer. Family, grief, survival, and climate change are the themes in Roberta Schultz’s second full-length collection.     Available from the publisher.

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