by Jones, Brent
“Why, Rosie?” His expression hardened. “Why did you do it? To me and—” Brennan motioned toward Abby, which was difficult, given that everything in this world had blurred edges, “—Abby, too.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain it,” Rosie said. “Not in a way that makes any sense. Not in a way that makes any of it right. I loved you, Brennan, and Abby, too. I always did. And what I did was selfish, I don’t deny that. I guess . . .” She searched for the words, and Brennan watched her slide in and out of focus. “I suppose I was searching for something. A new beginning, maybe. But everything I ever wanted was waiting for me at home.”
Another gust of soothing wind passed and Rosie began shrinking back toward the light, joining Fender and Abby. Rosie blew Brennan a kiss. “Please don’t ever forget us,” she said.
“Goodbye, Daddy!” Abby shrieked, her face a toothy grin. She waved her tiny translucent hand back and forth.
“No!” Brennan shouted. “No, not yet! Come back!” He again ran toward the light but got no closer. The whiteness cracked like thunder and began expanding, contracting, drawing in Abby, Rosie, and Fender. “No! No, don’t go! I’m not ready to let go! I’m not ready to move on!”
You are, Man Human. It’s time.
“No, please, Fender, don’t go! You’re all I’ve got left! Please, no!”
Their figures faded little by little, disappearing into swirling white, like an overexposed photograph.
We’re with you now as much as we were then. Will you remember us?
Brennan couldn’t answer. He sobbed and felt like he was being torn in two, part of him being sucked into the white vacuum.
Life is a journey, Man Human, and we will always be part of that journey with you. Nothing can change that. Don’t forget it.
Brennan mustered all the strength he had left. “But I don’t wanna remember you! I want to be with you!”
And you always will be.
“We love you, Daddy!”
Their images diminished to a single brilliant dot among the blackness. And they were gone.
Chapter 27
The car came to a stop on the shoulder.
Brennan wrestled with his seatbelt. He grasped at the door handle, palm wet with sweat, and clambered out. He leaned in through the back door, stricken with panic, mind racing, trying to get a better look beneath the dim cabin lighting. Fender’s silhouette remained motionless.
“Fender . . .” Brennan jostled Fender’s cold body with firm, even pressure. Another shake, harder, rolling the dog onto his stomach. “Fender, please, wake up.”
His frantic thoughts were pierced by the incessant click-click-click of the hazard lights. Each click was harsh, offensive, a reminder of how fast seconds would turn into minutes, hours.
His friends stood behind him and watched over his shoulder. He ran his hands over the dog’s body. No rise and fall of his chest, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. “Fender . . .” There was no response.
Click-click-click.
“Bee? What’s going on back there?”
“Is Fender all right?”
“Bee?”
Click-click-click.
Brennan felt his own heart hammering against his chest. He gasped to breathe. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Again he rocked Fender, but he remained motionless. “Fender, no . . .” He snatched up his dog, held him close to his chest, and let tears flow uninhibited.
Click-click-click.
A subtle twitch, then another, little by little, a jerk, then—arrrr—Fender gulped for air, coughed, choked on the contents of his own empty lungs. “Fender, you’re . . .” Brennan released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You’re alive! Fender. Oh, thank God, Fender . . .”
Click-click-click.
Fender was disoriented. His vapid brown eyes darted in the darkness between the men. He sucked in air, his breathing ragged and rough, interrupted by bursts of hacking and spluttering. There was no way of knowing how long it had been since Fender had last drawn a breath.
A car drove by and Brennan used its passing light to examine Fender in more detail. “Are you . . .”
Click-click-click.
Fender didn’t writhe or squirm. He held still, except for his head, which bobbed under its own weight. He was weak and dehydrated, and Brennan found the answer to his question. “Fender’s in pain,” he said. “He’s suffering.”
Disjointed images from his dream poured back through his mind. Brennan bit his lower lip, shook his head, and felt defeated. He knew at once what had to be done.
Click-click-click.
His friends moved closer, each extending a hand to Fender. Rocco frowned and narrowed his eyes. “What now, Bee?”
Brennan shrugged. He was heartbroken and unsure what to do. “Let’s just get going.”
“You wanna give him a chance to—”
“No. Let’s just go.”
The men climbed in and the car gave one last click-click-click triplet before merging back on the interstate.
Brennan reached for his phone. “How much farther to Chicago?” His tone had a sharp edge to it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
Rocco glanced at the clock on the dash. “Four or five more hours, I’d say. We should be close by sunrise.” A pause, a glance in the rearview. “Why?”
“We gotta stop.”
“For Fender?” asked Franky.
“Yeah. I’ve been pushing to get him home, but . . .” He fought back more tears and stared at the screen, scouring the search results. “I mean, if I p-push to get him home, it only p-rolongs his suffering.” He lowered his head to Fender, whispered, “Chicago’s g-gonna be our last stop together, l-little buddy.”
Brennan remained vigilant in the backseat, watching over his best friend in the dark. He stroked him, recalled warm memories they had shared, and tried to enjoy their last night together.
Chapter 28
The men checked in to the Helix the next morning, a boutique hotel located in River North, a busy downtown Chicago neighborhood known for art, culture, shopping, and dining. The hotel was a short walk from The Loop, the business district, but also a hub for monuments, statues, and tourists. Brennan stood across the street with Fender on the only patch of grass in sight, and his friends joined them outside a minute later.
“What happens now?” asked Rocco.
Brennan urged himself to be strong. “We’ve g-got an appointment in a couple hours. Short cab ride from here.”
“You don’t want us to come with?” asked Franky.
“No, but thanks. I appreciate it, but if it’s all right with you guys, I’m just gonna take him in on my own.”
Rocco nodded and looked up. He studied the red brick exterior of the Helix. Through the glass doors, he could see a fireplace in the lobby next to an indoor pond, a mosaic of logs behind it that stretched to the ceiling. “Why this hotel, Bee? Fender’s not even allowed—”
“We’re gonna take a little walk until it’s time to go.” He glanced at his dog, who waited at attention on the grass. “He, ah, somehow seems to be in better spirits this morning. Like he got one last b-burst of energy or something.” He pointed to North Clark Street. “We’re close enough to some attractions so you guys can keep yourselves busy.”
Rocco put a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about us. I think me and Franky’ll get ourselves some breakfast and try to get some sleep. We’ll be thinking about you, though.” He crouched to pet Fender. “Both of you.”
Franky took a turn. He knelt, stroked Fender’s back, said nothing, and entered the Helix with Rocco a moment later.
Brennan set off on foot, surprised to see that Fender not only matched his pace, but tugged at the leash to go faster. It wreaked havoc on him to see such exuberance emerge in his final hours. He knew it wouldn’t last, even though he so badly wanted it to.
They crossed between downtown streets, observing young professionals on their way to work. A man pass
ed them in haste. He wore stylish leather shoes, a belt to match, a button down shirt tucked into dark blue denim, had groomed facial hair. A woman walked in the opposite direction in slacks, a fitted blouse, ankle boots, and modest makeup. Another woman approached, this one in her early twenties, and lowered herself to the ground. She was short, five-two or five-three despite wearing heels, and had long chestnut hair that looked as though it had just been blown out. “Can I pet your dog?”
“Sure.”
But before he had answered, she was already scratching Fender behind the ears. “What a beautiful boy.” Her voice, thin and airy, had the slightest hint of a Midwestern accent. “What’s his name?”
“Fender.”
She had no reaction to the name. She just smiled and said, “Makes me miss my doggo back home in Indiana. I only get to see him on weekends now.” Fender sat still for her, panting, wagging his tail, and concentrating on nothing but accepting her love. “Very nice to meet you, Fender.” The woman stood. “You have a good day, boy.” She blew Fender a kiss and rejoined the foot traffic.
Brennan crossed the Chicago River with Fender on North Dearborn Street, entering what he presumed was The Loop. He checked the time and realized he would have to call a cab before long. Fender seemed to be enjoying their final outing, though. His parted mouth gave the appearance of a grin, and he glanced in all directions as they walked.
It occurred to Brennan that neither of them had eaten in a while, and he heard his own stomach growl. “Your last supper,” he said to Fender. “You hungry, little buddy?” He had no idea if Fender would eat, but decided it was worth a try.
A woman in her late twenties approached, jogging with earbuds in, an iPhone strapped to her bicep. Brennan flagged her down. She slowed her pace and pulled the music from her ears.
“Sorry to bother you, but, uh, we’re—” He motioned down at Fender as he said we’re, “—not from around here and we’re just hoping to find some lunch. Any place you’d recommend?”
The woman wiped sweat from her brow with her forearm. She placed her hands on her sides and took a second to catch her breath.
“We were hoping to try something local and authentic.”
“Have you ever had real deep dish pizza before?”
The sound of meat, cheese, and grease piled inches high sounded good, but he doubted they had time. “Maybe something a bit faster. We’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Have you tried Portillo’s yet?”
“Portillo’s?”
“Yeah, it’s a famous spot for hot dogs.”
Hot dogs had been Abby’s favorite food, and Brennan thought back to grilling them for her. He decided it was as good an option as any.
The jogger gave him directions and began putting her earbuds back in. She stopped, adding, “Oh, and if you want the real deal, make sure you get your hot dog Chicago-style.”
“What’s that? Something special ’bout the hot dog?”
“You’ll see.”
Brennan had expected Portillo’s to be a small stand on the side of the street. It ended up being a large brick building, what looked almost like a large food court from the outside. He spotted a sticker on the door that made it clear pets were not allowed. He wanted to give Fender a proper last meal, but didn’t want to risk leaving him tied outdoors. And he didn’t want to cause a scene by attempting to smuggle him in.
A man approached on the sidewalk. He was lean, wiry, tall, with fair features, blue eyes, and he looked to be about the same age as Brennan. The man took delicate steps in a bespoke pinstripe suit, a salmon-colored pocket square and a silk necktie to match. Despite the warmth of the early June day, he had his jacket buttoned. The man caught Brennan staring. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, um . . . I’m just visiting Chicago, and—”
“Me, too.” His voice was soft and effeminate. “I’m here for a conference.”
“Yes, well, I was told I just had to try a Portillo’s hot dog while we’re here, and—”
“Oh, yes, you do.” The man grinned and rubbed his flat stomach. “This is my third time in Chicago, and I stop here—” He pointed to the entrance, “—every time I visit. And who’s this little guy?”
“This is Fender, and . . .”
“Who’s a good boy, Fender?” The man got down on his level. “Who’s a good boy?”
“. . . I’m Brennan. We’re here with some friends from Buffalo.”
“Buffalo?” The man turned up his nose, stood. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Logan. Logan Thomson.”
“And you’re here for some kind of conference?”
“Yeah, lawyer stuff. Criminal defense. It never ends.”
Brennan was unclear on what that meant. “Sure,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. He fished some cash from his pocket. “Listen, I can’t go inside with my dog, and I was just wondering—”
“Say no more.” Logan shook his head and snapped his slender fingers. “I’d be happy to grab you a hot dog. Chicago-style?”
“That’s what I was told to get.” He extended his hand with the cash.
Logan waved the money away. “My treat. I insist.” He looked down. “Anything for this little guy?”
“How ‘bout a bottle of water?”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
Logan entered and Brennan half-expected a puff of glitter to signal his departure. He had no idea where this stranger had come from, but suspected that life hadn’t always been easy on him. Something about the way he carried himself, kept up appearances, directed the conversation.
Brennan watched traffic pass until Logan returned with a Styrofoam takeout container. It housed an enormous all-beef frankfurter on a poppy seed bun, slathered in mustard, chopped onions, relish, tomato slices, peppers, and seasoning. “Wow,” he said, “wasn’t expecting this.”
“Yeah, they’re good. My brother’s ex-girlfriend used to try to force our whole family to eat vegetarian, but thank God she’s out of the picture.”
Brennan salivated and realized he was hungrier than he had thought. He suddenly wished he had asked for two. But more than anything, he wanted to feed Fender one last time. “Are you sure I can’t give you something for this?”
“You’re sweet, but like I said, it’s on me.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. My husband is waiting for me back at the hotel.”
“The Helix?” Brennan wasn’t sure why he’d said it. There were a million hotels nearby.
“Yes, the Helix. Wait, how did . . .” Logan hesitated. “Are you following me, Brennan, if that is your real name?”
“No, not following you, no need to be alarmed.” He stared back toward the traffic and considered what to say next. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit out of sorts. Tough day.”
Logan nodded and smiled, suggesting he had already figured that out. “It’s coming up on a tough time of year for me, too. Lost my mom in June twenty-six years ago.”
“Never gets easier, does it?”
“Best you can do is find a way to live the life ahead of you instead of the one behind you. You miss your loved ones with all your heart. That part never changes, but you just do your best to make them proud. Every day’s a new beginning, you know?” Logan straightened his suit jacket and continued, “All right, I’m off for real this time. Enjoy the Portillo’s, and who knows? Maybe our paths will cross again someday.”
“Maybe they will.” Brennan led Fender to a bench facing the street. “Wait, Logan, before you go . . .”
“Yes?”
“Think you could snap a pic of me and my dog here?” Brennan handed over his phone, realizing it would be the first photo he had taken this entire trip.
Logan accepted the phone and stepped back. “Portrait or landscape?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Smile.”
Brennan did just that. He slid the phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath, and said, “Th
anks again for lunch, Logan. And try to have some fun while you’re here.”
“I always do,” he said. “I think of Chicago as my home away from home.”
Brennan took a seat on the bench, hoisted Fender up next to him, and tore off a piece of the wiener. He extended the morsel and Fender sniffed it at first, cautious, and then gobbled it up. And then another piece, and another, and a moment later, the whole hot dog was gone, including the bun. Brennan wiped mustard from Fender’s muzzle and opened the bottle of water, tilted it, and allowed a shallow stream to trickle from its edge. Fender lapped it up without hesitation, and Brennan cried in silence.
“I love you, b-buddy. The world’ll never be the same without you.”
Chapter 29
“Have you seen this done before?”
Brennan shook his head, making no effort to shield his watering eyes. He kept his sights trained on Fender on the examination table, which was layered in a plush blanket. The dog looked at ease, pacified, all four paws sticking out to one side.
“It happens pretty fast,” the vet said. “Takes just a minute or two.”
“That’s all we have left, little buddy,” he whispered, his lips to Fender’s ear. “Just a minute or two.”
Brennan tried to adjust his breathing to match Fender’s, slow and shallow, but the sense of panic he felt made it difficult. He was about to be complicit in the death of his dog. It felt wrong, and his whole body urged him to prevent this from happening. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” He stroked his dog’s face with trembling hands. “I love you, little buddy.” He gave him another long, firm, gentle stroke, full of warmth. “You’re a good boy, little buddy.” Another stroke, this one slower, more tender. “I m-mean it, little buddy, I’ll m-miss you . . .” He hoped to calm them both through repetition. “You won’t have to s-suffer anymore, little buddy.”
The vet stood back a couple feet from the table, watching and waiting. “I’m going to inject him with a large dose of anesthetic,” she said. “It’ll stop his heart almost instantly. He won’t feel a thing. But once he’s gone, he might take another breath, kind of a twitch. Especially beagles. Sometimes they howl and that’s normal and nothing to be alarmed by, okay?”