The Doberman looked calm enough, peeping at her from behind a dog run of chain-link fence, quiet and alert, and standing at attention. Not barking, just watchful, ears pricked.
Amelia froze, but her heart beat wildly, adrenaline carrying terror to every nerve cell in her body. She breathed only from the top part of her lungs, inadequate air chuffing in and out.
When she was seven, sent off by her parents to enjoy the park on her own, she’d gotten mauled by a dog and ended up with nineteen stitches on the back of her legs.
The medical staff at the emergency room made a fuss about calling Child Protective Services, but a fistful of cash later, her parents’ lawyer mounted a defense in what later became known as “free-range parenting.” The lawyer not only got them off the hook, but he’d turned the case to their advantage by prosecuting the dog owner and winning a tidy sum. After that, though, her parents paid a nanny to take her to the park.
They really were great parents; the best parents ever, she reminded herself. They simply held strong beliefs that children should be neither coddled nor overindulged with too much attention. They believed that soft snuggles and tender cuddles caused dependency and that unwarranted praise turned kids into wimps who couldn’t handle adversity.
Sure, she would have enjoyed more praise, but her stoic upbringing had forged resilience, independence, and the ability to regulate her emotions. It taught her how to be self-contained, self-reliant, and self-sufficient.
Amelia was glad for it.
Yes, some people thought her a cold fish, but they didn’t understand how deeply she really did feel things. So deeply, in fact, she never dared give her emotions free rein for fear of falling apart completely if she did.
The dog growled, a low, dark, threatening sound.
Eyes rounding, she saw the gate’s latch was unlocked. If he charged, the gate would fly right open and the Doberman would be at her throat.
Terror clubbed her and she was seven all over again.
Amelia slunk back.
The dog growled again and the hairs on Amelia’s arm lifted. The air, which earlier felt heavy and heated, now seemed frigid and frail.
Immobilized by fear, she was afraid to go forward. Or back up for that matter.
The dog was behind a fence; even if the gate was unlatched, he probably didn’t know it. Just tiptoe on by.
Logical, yes. But emotion trumped logic every time. The old scars on her calves throbbed with each skip of her heart.
Giving the Doberman the side-eye—she’d heard never make direct eye contact with a dangerous animal—she took a tentative step toward the house.
Instantly, the Doberman jerked his head.
Or rather tried.
His head did not move, but the rest of his body flinched, his tensed muscles visibly spasming down his neck and across his broad chest. Something was wrong with the animal.
She stopped again, this time out of concern instead of self-preservation. She might not be a fan of dogs, but she hated seeing anything or anyone in pain.
The Doberman whimpered softly, and his pupils widened.
Stretching her neck, she leaned farther over to see what’d happened.
The dog’s thick leather collar had somehow gotten looped around the top of the T-post, holding him immobile. If he moved, he’d choke himself. The poor thing was in desperate straits. No telling how long he’d been hung up like this.
Then, she spied the sign so bold, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it right away. Posted on the fence in neon orange letters: beware of dog.
And on the blue plastic water bowl, a name.
cujo.
Clenching her hands, she sucked in oxygen. It took everything she had to force her feet in the direction of that fence.
Briefly, she thought of just going to the front door, and telling whoever answered that their dog was in trouble, but she knew once that door opened and whoever was behind it got a good look at her, things would quickly spiral out of control.
Besides, the dog was up on the tips of his paws. If he even so much as sat, he’d cut off his air supply and strangle to death. He needed help and he needed it now.
The dog’s eyes pleaded with her.
Save me.
All right. Maybe she was anthropomorphizing him, but there was desperation in his gaze.
“Hey boy,” she cooed in a shaky voice.
He tried to lunge, but his collar slipped, sliding farther down the T-post, tightening the noose. The dog made a strangled, gargling noise.
If she didn’t do something now, the dog would choke to death in front of her. Galvanized, Amelia raced toward the fence and the beware of dog sign.
The Doberman’s head was so close to hers, his long sharp teeth bared. His upper lip curled back in a snarl, spittle foamed from his mouth, and his eyes bugged from his head. The collar twisted so tightly his neck veins engorged.
She hesitated, panic ripping through her. Compartmentalize, compartmentalize, compartmentalize.
Yes, it sounded good, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to touch the dog. Don’t think—dear God, did she overthink things—do. Act. Go, go, go.
Gritting her teeth, and quivering from head to toe, Amelia faced her long-held phobia, experienced the dog’s hot breath against her skin in a moment that stretched out like millennia as she reached to unfasten the collar.
Her fingers hesitated at the buckle. Once she freed him what if the Doberman turned on her? What if he attacked?
Her heart pole-vaulted into the middle of her throat and anchored there. Maybe that’s how her life would end. Not a slow withering away from renal failure but mauled to death by the dog she’d tried to save.
Amelia let out a short, jolting chortle. There it was again, that fat, juicy slice of irony.
But death by dog might not be all bad. At least she wouldn’t have to knock on that door, stare into the face of the identical twin sister she’d never set eyes on, and say, “Um, you don’t know me, but could you spare a kidney?”
Chapter Three
Anna
The Housewife
Inside the house, Anna stood at the ironing board, spray-starching her husband’s crisp white dress shirt.
Laundry surrounded her. It was piled on the floor and waiting to go into the washing machine, stacked on the folding table ready for dresser drawers, and wrinkled in baskets next in line for the iron.
Items of summer were scattered about the mudroom: Logan’s water wings and flip-flops on the floor by the back door, sun hats and caps hung from the hooks mounted above the sink, a dark yellow tube of sunscreen, float toys, and a pair of cymbals that Allie had brought home from band the last day of school.
And then Anna spied a stubborn dark orange-red stain embedded near the second button of the shirt’s cotton fabric.
Her stomach dropped. Not again!
“Kev!” she yelled so that he could hear her in the master bedroom where he was packing to go out on the road again. A late-season tornado had wiped out a big swatch of a small Oklahoma town. He would be processing insurance claims for weeks.
“Yeah?” he yelled back.
She ran a finger over the stain. “Have you been eating Toad’s chili again?”
Kevin mumbled something she couldn’t hear.
Scowling, she shook her head. She understood that her husband was a red-blooded, chest-thumping carnivorous male, and naturally resistant to the plant-based meal plan she struggled to keep him on.