Bob couldn't recall his sins.
"Nadia," the girl said and stepped back into the light. "Bring him up here, Bob. Pete says hi."
They washed it in Nadia's sink, dried it off, and brought it to her kitchen table.
Nadia was small. A bumpy red rope of a scar ran across the base of her throat like the smile of a drunk circus clown. She had a tiny moon of a face, savaged by pockmarks, and small, heart-pendant eyes. Shoulders that didn't cut so much as dissolve at the arms. Elbows like flattened beer cans. A yellow bob of hair curled on either side of her face. "It's not a boxer." Her eyes glanced off Bob's face before dropping the puppy back onto her kitchen table. "It's an American Staffordshire terrier."
Bob knew he was supposed to understand something in her tone, but he didn't know what that thing was so he remained silent.
She glanced back up at him after the quiet lasted too long. "A pit bull."
"That's a pit bull?"
She nodded and swabbed the puppy's head wound again. Someone had pummeled it, she told Bob. Probably knocked it unconscious, assumed it was dead, and dumped it.
"Why?" Bob said.
She looked at him, her round eyes getting rounder, wider. "Just because." She shrugged, went back to examining the dog. "I worked at Animal Rescue once. You know the place on Shawmut? As a vet tech. Before I decided it wasn't my thing. They're so hard, this breed..."
"What?"
"To adopt out," she said. "It's very hard to find them a home."
"I don't know about dogs. I never had a dog. I live alone. I was just walking by the barrel." Bob found himself beset by a desperate need to explain himself, explain his life. "I'm just not..." He could hear the wind outside, black and rattling. Rain or bits of hail spit against the windows.
Nadia lifted the puppy's back left paw--the other three paws were brown, but this one was white with peach spots. Then she dropped the paw as if it were contagious. She went back to the head wound, took a closer look at the right ear, a piece missing from the tip that Bob hadn't noticed until now.
"Well," she said, "he'll live. You're gonna need a crate and food and all sorts of stuff."
"No," Bob said. "You don't understand."
She cocked her head, gave him a look that said she understood perfectly.
"I can't. I just found him. I was gonna give him back."
"To whoever beat him, left him for dead?"
"No, no, like, the authorities."
"That would be Animal Rescue," she said. "After they give the owner seven days to reclaim him, they'll--"
"The guy who beat him? He gets a second chance?"
She gave him a half-frown and a nod. " If he doesn't take it," she lifted the puppy's ear, peered in, "chances are this little fella'll be put up for adoption. But it's hard. To find them a home. Pit bulls. More often than not?" She looked at Bob. "More often than not, they're put down."
Bob felt a wave of sadness roll out from her that immediately shamed him. He didn't know how, but he'd caused pain. He'd put some out into the world. He'd let this girl down. "I..." he started. "It's just..."
She glanced up at him. "I'm sorry?"
Bob looked at the puppy. Its eyes were droopy from a long day in the barrel and whoever gave it that wound. It had stopped shivering, though.
"You can take it," Bob said. "You used to work there, like you said. You--"
She shook her head. "My father lives with me. He gets home Sunday night from Foxwoods. He finds a dog in his house? An animal he's allergic to?" She jerked her thumb. "Puppy goes back in the barrel."
"Can you give me till Sunday morning?" Bob wasn't sure how it was the words left his mouth, since he couldn't remember formulating them or even thinking them.
The girl eyed him carefully. "You're not just saying it? Cause, I shit you not, he ain't picked up by Sunday noon, he's back out that door."
"Sunday, then." Bob said the words with a conviction he actually felt. "Sunday, definitely."
"Yeah?" She smiled, and it was a spectacular smile, and Bob saw that the face behind the
"Nadia," the girl said and stepped back into the light. "Bring him up here, Bob. Pete says hi."
They washed it in Nadia's sink, dried it off, and brought it to her kitchen table.
Nadia was small. A bumpy red rope of a scar ran across the base of her throat like the smile of a drunk circus clown. She had a tiny moon of a face, savaged by pockmarks, and small, heart-pendant eyes. Shoulders that didn't cut so much as dissolve at the arms. Elbows like flattened beer cans. A yellow bob of hair curled on either side of her face. "It's not a boxer." Her eyes glanced off Bob's face before dropping the puppy back onto her kitchen table. "It's an American Staffordshire terrier."
Bob knew he was supposed to understand something in her tone, but he didn't know what that thing was so he remained silent.
She glanced back up at him after the quiet lasted too long. "A pit bull."
"That's a pit bull?"
She nodded and swabbed the puppy's head wound again. Someone had pummeled it, she told Bob. Probably knocked it unconscious, assumed it was dead, and dumped it.
"Why?" Bob said.
She looked at him, her round eyes getting rounder, wider. "Just because." She shrugged, went back to examining the dog. "I worked at Animal Rescue once. You know the place on Shawmut? As a vet tech. Before I decided it wasn't my thing. They're so hard, this breed..."
"What?"
"To adopt out," she said. "It's very hard to find them a home."
"I don't know about dogs. I never had a dog. I live alone. I was just walking by the barrel." Bob found himself beset by a desperate need to explain himself, explain his life. "I'm just not..." He could hear the wind outside, black and rattling. Rain or bits of hail spit against the windows.
Nadia lifted the puppy's back left paw--the other three paws were brown, but this one was white with peach spots. Then she dropped the paw as if it were contagious. She went back to the head wound, took a closer look at the right ear, a piece missing from the tip that Bob hadn't noticed until now.
"Well," she said, "he'll live. You're gonna need a crate and food and all sorts of stuff."
"No," Bob said. "You don't understand."
She cocked her head, gave him a look that said she understood perfectly.
"I can't. I just found him. I was gonna give him back."
"To whoever beat him, left him for dead?"
"No, no, like, the authorities."
"That would be Animal Rescue," she said. "After they give the owner seven days to reclaim him, they'll--"
"The guy who beat him? He gets a second chance?"
She gave him a half-frown and a nod. " If he doesn't take it," she lifted the puppy's ear, peered in, "chances are this little fella'll be put up for adoption. But it's hard. To find them a home. Pit bulls. More often than not?" She looked at Bob. "More often than not, they're put down."
Bob felt a wave of sadness roll out from her that immediately shamed him. He didn't know how, but he'd caused pain. He'd put some out into the world. He'd let this girl down. "I..." he started. "It's just..."
She glanced up at him. "I'm sorry?"
Bob looked at the puppy. Its eyes were droopy from a long day in the barrel and whoever gave it that wound. It had stopped shivering, though.
"You can take it," Bob said. "You used to work there, like you said. You--"
She shook her head. "My father lives with me. He gets home Sunday night from Foxwoods. He finds a dog in his house? An animal he's allergic to?" She jerked her thumb. "Puppy goes back in the barrel."
"Can you give me till Sunday morning?" Bob wasn't sure how it was the words left his mouth, since he couldn't remember formulating them or even thinking them.
The girl eyed him carefully. "You're not just saying it? Cause, I shit you not, he ain't picked up by Sunday noon, he's back out that door."
"Sunday, then." Bob said the words with a conviction he actually felt. "Sunday, definitely."
"Yeah?" She smiled, and it was a spectacular smile, and Bob saw that the face behind the
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