Dead Worlds by Jack Skillingstead A week after my retrieval I went for a drive in the country. I turned the music up loud, Aaron Copland. The two lane blacktop wound into late summer woods. Sun and shadow slipped over my Mitsubishi. I felt okay but how long could it last? The point, I guess, was to find out. I was driving too fast, but that's not why I hit the dog. Even at a reduced speed I wouldn't have been able to stop in time. I had shifted into a slightly banked corner overhung with maple--and the dog was just there. A big shepherd standing in the middle of the road with his tongue hanging out as if he'd been running. Brakes, clutch, panicked wrenching of the wheel, a tight skid. The heavy thud of impact felt through the car's frame. I turned off the digital music stream and sat a few moments in silence except for the nearly subaudible ripple of the engine. In the rearview mirror the dog lay in the road. I swallowed, took a couple of deep breaths then let the clutch out and slowly rolled onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The door swung smoothly up and away. A warm breeze scooped into the car carrying birdsong and the muted purl of running water--a creek or stream. I walked back to the dog. He wasn't dead. At the sound of my footsteps approaching he twisted his head around and snapped at me. I halted a few yards away. The dog whined. Bloody foam flecked his lips. His hind legs twitched brokenly. "Easy," I said. The dog whimpered, working his jaws. He didn't snap again, not even when I hunkered close and laid my hand between his ears. The short hairs bristled against my palm. His chest heaved. He made a grunting, coughing sound. Blood spattered the road. I looked on, dispassionate. Already I was losing my sense of emotional connection. I had deliberately neglected to take my pill that morning. Then the woman showed up. I heard her trampling through the underbrush. She called out, "Buddy! Buddy!" "Here," I said. She came out of the woods holding a red nylon leash, a woman maybe thirty-five years old with short blond hair, wearing a sleeveless blouse, khaki shorts and ankle boots. She hesitated. Shock crossed her face. Then she ran to us. "Buddy, oh Buddy." She knelt by the dog, tears spilling from her blue eyes. My chest tightened. I wanted to cherish the emotion. But was it genuine or a residual effect of the drug? "I'm sorry," I said. "He was in the road." "I took him off leash," she said. "It's my fault." She kept stroking the dog's side, saying his name. Buddy lay his head in her lap as if he was going to sleep. He coughed again, choking up blood. She stroked him and cried. "Is there a vet?" I asked. She didn't answer. Buddy shuddered violently and ceased breathing, that was the end. "We'd better move him out of the road," I said. She looked at me and there was something fierce in her eyes. "I'm taking him home," she said. She struggled to pick the big shepherd up in her arms. The dog was almost as long as she was tall.