On the walkway I stood staring after him. Almost, I could remember him—but he’d been younger then. If only he would turn, and see me, and not always be running away as if he wished to avoid me, too.

First Aid

ON HIS SHORT LEGS BRINDLE WAS STRUGGLING TO BRING ME something gripped in his jaws. At first it seemed that he’d managed to kill a creature smaller than himself but no, turned out to be the denim bag I carried instead of a purse, and inside the denim bag a small first aid kit.

No idea where I’d acquired this first aid kit whose contents I examined with mounting excitement: Band-Aids, a roll of gauze, small bottle of disinfectant, small scissors, also nail clippers, (white) adhesive tape. Box of cough drops, lozenges, tube of sunscreen, lip gloss. Asthma inhaler, red plastic. Small bottle of ibuprofen. Toothbrush, very small tube of toothpaste.

How strange this was! Yet my reaction was curiosity rather than alarm. Discovering deeper in the bag a Swiss army knife, an eight-ounce aerosol container of pesticide (to be employed like Mace in the event of an emergency), a wad of blood-stiffened Kleenex and a single seashell earring which I did not recognize as my own.

Had to laugh, this treasure trove was utterly baffling.

Demanding of the little bulldog—Where’d you get these crazy things?

Impudently Brindle stood on his hind legs and began licking my face. My hands, my arms were paralyzed at first, I could not push him away . . .

And then I was wakened rudely, abruptly. Of course it was the little dog energetically licking my face with his soft slovenly tongue.

Above me the mashed-in brown face loomed like a moon in shadow. Bug-eyes so wide-set they shone like the eyes of a lunatic. And the damned tongue, the panting slithery tongue, making me shiver, shudder, laugh—“Brindle, stop! No.”

I was in bed. In this new, slightly uncomfortable bed in this new place in—was it Mohawk, New York? Where sheer chance had brought me in my panicked flight from Catamount Falls.

Recalling now, as remnants of the dream lapped about me like a shallow stream, that the small red asthma inhaler had belonged to my high school classmate Tyrell Jones.

Of course!—Tyrell Jones.

Had I ever seen another asthma inhaler in the intervening years?—I was sure that I had not.

And now it came to me: Tyrell Jones was the dark-skinned man with the briefcase whom I had seen on campus . . .