Five minutes down the road from the Jennings’s house is my refuge. Hidden deep within the trees at the end of a single-lane dirt road is the little A-frame house I’ve managed to secure as home for the last seven weeks.
Its front porch pushes right up to a creek that turns into a river during the rainy season, or so I’ve heard. It’s functional; the only exceptional thing about the place is the location, but it’s better than the campsite I was at with nothing but a sleeping bag to keep me warm, a tarp to keep me dry, and a lake to bathe in. But even camping was a luxury compared to some of the places I lived before. At least the outdoors doesn’t come with bars, locks, or psychopathic roommates.
I park my pickup under the juniper tree by the back door and hop out, feeling the tightness in my muscles that always accompany a hard day’s labor. I grab a box of scrap that was left over from the last house we built. A few pieces of random, mismatched electrical plates, hardware, and doorknobs, all given to me by our foreman.
The trickle of the creek and wheezing of a soft wind through the trees calms my nerves and I’m reminded that I’m alone. Safe.
Halfway up the stairs, I sense movement from beneath the porch. I set down the box and lean around the railing but it’s too dark to see anything. Chances are it’s a raccoon or a possum. A high-pitched whine filters through the dark. Whatever is down there needs help.
I jog back to the truck and grab a flashlight and shine it under the porch to see a set of sad brown eyes staring back at me. It’s a dog. All the way out here? His fur is dark, but it looks like there are some spots that might’ve been white once upon a time.
“Hey, puppy. It’s okay.” I reach out, but the animal recoils as if my hand is a weapon. “I won’t hurt you.” I put down the flashlight but keep the beam shining in his general direction, and rest my elbows on my knees. “Come here, you’re okay.”
He whimpers and readjusts to lying down, claiming his spot and not budging.
“You hungry?”
Another sad whine, as if he can actually understand what I’m saying. I take all four porch steps in one stride and let myself into the house, turning on the single bulb that hangs in the kitchen, and pop open the fridge. Mayo, mustard, peanut butter . . . no. I grab a package of hot dogs and head back down to peer beneath the deck.
Ripping off an end, I squat and hold out the meat. He stares at my hand but doesn’t move. I toss the piece back and he sniffs it a couple times before swallowing it in one bite. “Yeah, you’re hungry.”
I rip off another piece and strings of slobber drip from his jowls. It’s as if tasting food ignited his hunger even more, a feeling I can relate to. One after another, I toss pieces and he inhales each until he’s consumed five hot dogs, all of what was left in the package.
“Full, Buddy? Come here.” I pat my thighs and he retreats deeper into the shadows.
The weather is nice enough. He should be fine for the night as well as be protected from larger animals under the porch. I’ve got too much work to do tonight to try to coax him out.
If there’s one thing I know about being scared, it’s that trust isn’t given out freely, and the dark is your best friend.
I head back inside and take a quick shower, bringing my clothes in with me to wash them and hang them to dry. The room I sleep in is mostly empty except for a bare mattress one of the guys at work gave me. With some sheets and a pillow I got from a garage sale, and my sleeping bag as a blanket, it’s one of the most comfortable places I’ve ever slept, and that has little to do with the bed.
Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I drag my feet against the cold hardwood floor into the kitchen where I’ve laid out a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of bread.
Expiration on the jar is two years from now.
Bread is fresh, free of mold.
I check the food one more time. Again. And once more before I make myself two peanut butter sandwiches.
“It’s good. It’s safe.” I say the words aloud to myself and it helps.
Tentatively I take the first bite, rolling it around in my mouth to test the flavor before swallowing. It’s been ten years since I was forced to eat the food given to me, and even still the hazy memories of violent food poisoning coupled with laughter haunt my every meal. I shove down the sandwiches with no enjoyment, meeting the base need quickly before I can talk myself out of it, then clean up and move to the single piece of furniture in the house.
A small table and chair I made from scrap wood after the first build I worked on with Jennings. It’s pieced together by two-by-fours in random lengths but sanded smooth and stained to the color of maple syrup. The chair is much of the same, and although the wood is unforgiving and aches my back, the pride in what I’ve created makes it seem like goose down.