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Coping poorly two years after his wife's death, an unassuming college professor deals with the need to change when his truck strikes a rather unique runaway late one night...

Well, it's time to return to the moreauverse. This story takes place some time after "Workin' like a dog," and several centuries before the events of Cry Havoc!_ and_ Steel and Fire and Stone_. It's a self-contained narrative. Beaten into shape with the help of the inimitable__ Spudz, to whom I am in debt._

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

"Sanctuary," by Rob Baird

---

It was halfway between Independence Day and Bastille Day, on the kind of night when you get to understanding how ornery folk up and decide to revolt. Muggy and hot as hell, with an electrical tension that hadn't lived up to its own promise.

The air conditioning was out in my truck. My computer was not working and I'd had to borrow a spare. My most recent paper had come back with comments that were going to take another month of research to answer. The coffee I'd ordered to keep me awake on the drive back from the city was at best subpar, and now only lukewarm.

Worst of all, KOPB was deep into a pledge drive, and the hosts were beginning to irritate me. I looked down to the radio, searching for the volume button, and returned my attention to the road just in time to see the dark shape dart across it.

I slammed on the brake -- felt the ABS jolting under my tennis shoes -- heard the tortured squeal of the rubber, and then the sickening crunch of an impact. The battered Ford carried on another thirty yards before it finally rolled to a halt by the side of the old logging road. Panting in the adrenaline rush, I reached over to stab the hazards button.

My finger came away wet; the entire panel was soaking with coffee. One more aggravation. "Goddamned deer," I growled; I'd been warned about them, over and over. Killing the ignition, I swore again, and used an even worse word this time.

And I got out of the truck, although truthfully I had no idea what I would do with the deer if it was still alive. As a bleeding-heart college professor I didn't carry a gun, or a knife, or ill intentions towards wildlife. Or any practical knowledge about them.

Any hope I'd had that the poor thing had been dispatched was put to rest swiftly. I heard a faint rustling in the foliage off the road's side, and a soft whimper. The beam of my flashlight picked out grass, and stones, and --

Then I yelped, and dropped the flashlight.

What I had seen was not a deer. It was also not human. A flood of terrifying thoughts poured into my brain. Everything I'd heard about the Cascade Range. Every logger who'd pulled my chain with stories about monsters that lived in the woods. Every story from the old frontier diaries I read. The thing the natives called sasq'ets.

And as my shaking hands felt around for the flashlight and the sound of my nervous breathing overpowered the quiet sounds from the injured thing, I also thought that I was half an hour from Willamina, and that I had not seen another car that evening.

Hoping beyond hope that it might have vanished -- that I could simply sprint back for my truck, gun the motor, and not stop until the coast -- I turned the flashlight back to what I'd seen.

Its back was to me, and its legs were drawn up a little, curled into a fetal position. But I could see that it was a long-legged biped -- tall enough to be human, except that it was covered in dark, dense fur. I took a cautious step closer, and then another.

It turned, starting to rise -- I caught a flash of bright green from its eyes -- and then I dropped the flashlight again. In the darkness I heard the scuffling of movement. Then a dull thump. Silence. When I turned the flashlight back on it, I found that the creature had collapsed into a heap. It didn't get up when I approached.

Now that its face was towards me I discovered that it looked a little like a dog, if dogs walked on two legs. A long muzzle; big ears. Whiskers. My light caught something glistening, and I saw that the fur of its hip was matted and dark. Very, very carefully I bent down to touch it, and I saw red on my pale fingers.

So at best it was injured. At worst, I had killed Bigfoot. My desire to flee had not ebbed, but I knew that I could not, not really. Tensing myself to run, I prodded the thing with my flashlight. It didn't move. I prodded it again. Nothing.

Its body was warm, and heavy enough, but I managed with some effort to scoop it into my arms and to hobble back towards my truck. I had considered putting it in the bed, but the sound of blood dripping onto the asphalt guilted me into opening the door and guiding it into the passenger's seat.

Was this how it looked when -- no. Couldn't think like that. I tried to find my voice, and was surprised at how clear it sounded, for I was giddy with nerves. "At least," I told the beast, "you're still breathing."

My fingers clenched the steering wheel until the knuckles were white, and I kept the accelerator as close to floored as I dared. And all the way to Lincoln City I stole glances at the thing -- waiting for it to snap back to life and lunge at me. Fortunately it did not. Fortunately I did not go off the road. Fortunately Hazel answered her phone on the third ring, though her voice sounded irritated.

"I need you to come to your office. Right now."

"Fuckin' -- it's 2 AM; can't it wait?"

"Right now Hazel I hit something -- please just come down I hit something and I'm on my way there and I hit something and I need you to --"

"Calm down, Ken. Jesus. You hit something?"

I blew through a red light; fortunately, there was nobody awake in Neotsu to care. "Yes! I hit something! I don't even know -- it's -- Hazel, please."

"Fine. Fine. Just -- fuck. Let me put some clothes on and I'll meet you there."

"Bring a gun," I told her, but I think she had already hung up.

Hazel Ballard's hair was tied back sloppily, and her t-shirt and jeans belied the professional experience of the town's best veterinarian -- we'd met back when Hazel was taking care of Terri's horses. She loved the things almost as much as Terri had. They rode together.

Hazel had been the first person I'd seen after I got the news from the sheriff and a state patrolman; had gone with me to the hospital in Portland. Had helped steady me when I signed the DNR. Had driven me back because I was incoherent, even though she said she didn't know how to use a manual transmission.

And now here she was, glowering at me under the harsh motion-sensing lights of her clinic. "What the hell are you getting me up at two in the fuckin' morning about, Ken Sanderson?"

I opened the passenger door of the truck, and Hazel's eyes went wide.

"Oh, Jesus." To her credit, her mouth hung open only until she caught the sight of blood pooled on the rubber floormat. Then she sprung back to life. "Help me get it out, Ken. Come on."

Together we pulled the thing from the cab, and carried it into her office. She set it on the examination table carefully, and I took a step back. Under the incandescent lights, and without the shock that had gripped me in the dark of the forest, it seemed a little less mysterious. And quite a lot more vulnerable.

Hazel had pulled on gloves, and she seemed to know from my expression that I had a million questions ready. She spoke with the commanding tone of someone versed in triage: "Step outside, Ken. I need to work."

The gloves were already stained with blood, and I took my cue to leave, first pacing out in the waiting room, and then taking a seat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Hazel emerged an hour later, and I looked up expectantly. "Well?"

"It'll live. Nothing broken, I don't think. Pretty bad cut to its right leg, but all told it got lucky."

"What is it, anyway? When I first saw it, I thought... I mean, I've heard about strange things living in the... the... what?"

Hazel was rolling her eyes. "You spend too much time listening to ghost stories. Aren't you supposed to be a learned man or something?"

"Come on..."

"You know the Kokkolas, right? The hybrids?"

"Sort of. But I've never seen one in person..." I'd heard of the animal hybrids that the Secret Service used -- but those were human volunteers, transplanted into a new, temporary body. They wore uniforms and body armor. They stayed in Washington. There were only a handful of them. And if I'd hit one... "Christ, he's military?"

"She. And no." Hazel tossed me something. A collar, with a silver nametag on it. American Genetics Marketing Corporation Davis CA had been stamped into one side; on the other: 3C-B0.5.13.

"I don't get it."

"Hybrids are basically humans. They have human rights. That's not so useful for research, so a couple of labs have been working on creating them from scratch."

I looked at the nametag again. "It's a test subject?"

"Or a cautionary tale. Either way, it may not be a monster but I don't like it, Ken. I don't want it in my clinic. They're not natural. It's too much like... playing God, what they're doing down there..."

I promised I'd call AGMC in the morning, and thanked Hazel again for her help. Together we got the creature, now with a bandage about its leg, into my truck, and with more effort I laid it to rest on my bed -- then closed and locked the bedroom door from the outside. Just in case.

Given a spell to recall, it seemed that I might've heard of what Hazel had mentioned -- scientific research on animals, urban legends about experiments gone wrong, that sort of thing. AGMC's website did not list a contact phone number, only an E-mail address. I started writing, and was most of the way through an explanation before exhaustion took abrupt hold and, curled up on my sofa, I dropped into unconsciousness.

I was woken up by the sound of something heavy coming to a landing and, just as I tried to figure out if it had taken place only in my dreams, a scrabbling at the knob of my bedroom door. Picking up the most threatening thing I had -- my old wooden walking stick -- I made my way down the hall, unlocked the door, and pulled it open to find my guest sprawled on the floor.

In full daylight, it no longer seemed threatening at all. Mostly, to be honest, it seemed pathetic. Its fur coat was ragged, and it was far too skinny, and the bandages gave it the look of an injured puppy that nobody had yet mustered the willpower to put down.

On the other hand, its fur reeked, and some dried blood and bits of hair marked where I had set it down on my bed. I did not exactly relish the thought of having to launder that. "Are you feeling any better?" I asked.

Its head canted, and I realized too late the folly of assuming it understood anything at all. I tried again, and this time -- sitting up carefully on its knees -- the thing raised one of its paws, and made a series of gestures.

"Sign language? Ah, hell. I don't speak sign language. Do you know English?" It stared at me, with dark, soulful eyes. "Alright. Here, come on." I held out my hand and, hesitantly, the thing reached out a paw to take it.

Its grasp was warm, with only a slight roughness accorded by the coarse pads of its fingers. But it seemed so human, in its general build, that I didn't feel all that strange about helping it to its feet, and pressing the walking-stick into its other paw.

It was now only a few inches from me, and although it was a little impolite I couldn't help recoiling: the smell was truly offensive. "If you're going to stay here, you're going to need to wash. Bath." I pantomimed scrubbing my arms, and it gestured in reply. "I don't know what that means."

Step by limping step, I guided it towards the bathroom. The thing had big ears, and when I opened the door they flattened all the way back into its head. They didn't relax until I had turned on the tap. I waited for the water to warm up, and plugged the drain.

Very, very carefully it lifted its good leg, and set it down in the tub -- but the mere fact that it had done anything at all was a good sign, for it confirmed that the creature knew something of civilization. And when its foot was firmly settled in the water, I felt something strike me, and turned to see the thing's tail wagging. "Happy?"

No answer, naturally.

"Here's the shampoo. Here's the soap. Use 'em, I can buy more." I did my best to show it how to turn off the water, and then made my exit from the too-small room and its pervasive smell.

A few minutes later, to my relief, the water did turn off, and I heard splashing. A good sign. I turned back to my laptop, and dashed off the shortest, most formal E-mail I could think of. Without admitting to any liability, I told "to whom it may concern" at AGMC that I had something of theirs, gave them my contact information, and closed the computer lid.

Then I frowned, and kept frowning as I set about making breakfast.

It wasn't quite as simple as all that. There were, after all, unanswered questions: what kind of thing was it? It looked like a German shepherd, down to the soft brown fur and big pointy ears, except that it had opposable thumbs and walked on two legs. Or, well, one and a half legs.

What was it doing in the Siuslaw? That was a long, long way from Davis.

Did it speak English?

Was it going to hurt me?

The bathroom door opened half an hour later and presented for my review a bedraggled, dripping thing that looked if anything more woebegone for the way its fur was plastered against its too-thin body. It signed something to me.

I shook my head. "Sorry. Still don't speak that." And it was starting to soak the carpet. "Come on, let's... at least get you outside. It'll be warm enough to dry you out..."

I opened the sliding door to my deck, and made a few beckoning gestures that were enough to draw it outside with me. There were two chairs. One of them, I sat in when I felt like enjoying a quiet evening listening to the birds. The other... the other was Terri's seat; her flip-flops were still resting undisturbed on it.

Nobody had used it since, but I didn't have the heart to try to warn my guest off before it nudged the sun-bleached sandals to the ground and settled down, leaving a spreading pool of water on the wood of the deck. It watched me carefully when I gathered the shoes up and set them off to the side.

"I wish I knew your name," I said. "I'm Kenneth Sanderson. I teach history at Reed. I was on my way back from researching at the library when I hit you. I'm sorry."

The blank expression that greeted me was not encouraging. I left the dog thing sitting on my deck and went back inside to get my breakfast. When I returned, taking the other seat and putting my plate on the old wooden table, it tilted its head again.

"You want some? I don't know what you eat. This is just sausage. And a waffle. With peanut butter." Its eyes had narrowed with laser focus on the food, and now I felt rather guilty. I broke the waffle in half and handed it over. More staring. "Go on. Take it. It's yours."

Very carefully, one of its black paws came up, and took the waffle from me. I could see it swallow, and lick its muzzle with anticipation.

"Go on. Not poison. See?" I took a bite myself.

And so did the dog -- sort of. The process was rather more industrial: in the blink of an eye, the waffle had been wolfed down, leaving not a trace behind. Blinking in surprise, I handed the other half over, and this disappeared too.

"Good?"

Having recognized the futility of gesturing, the creature didn't bother. Just looked at me, lapping what remained of the peanut butter fruitlessly from the roof of its mouth. Its pink tongue flicked out like a snake's, and I allowed myself a smile.

"Guess it's been awhile." I slid the plate of sausages over across the table, and went inside to call Hazel. When I returned, the plate was empty, and the dog's muzzle was pressed up against it, hungrily searching for any trace of grease that remained.

The vet showed up twenty minutes later, with the breakfast I'd asked her to pick up in a heavy bag. "You call the cops?" she asked.

"No. Not yet. I sent a note to this company in Davis but --" and here I paused, grunting as I hoisted a kitchen chair over the threshold onto the back porch, so that all three of us could have a seat. "It's the weekend, so I don't expect to hear anything until day after tomorrow, at least."

"Has it said anything?"

"Huh uh," I told Hazel, and handed over a bag of breakfast sandwiches to the dog, who immediately busied itself in unwrapping them. "I was going to ask you about that. They talk? It does this sign language thing."

"Maybe that's all they can do," Hazel shrugged. "I haven't tried to learn much about them..."

"You don't like them?" Although it was busy eating, I could tell the dog was at least partly listening to us. Whether it could follow our conversation, I had no idea.

"I don't have an opinion on the things themselves. I just don't like the way the corporations are messing with life like this, Ken. You know what they want, don't you? They want something they can experiment on. Medical research. Engineering. Something that doesn't have to give consent..."

"You really think so?"

"Well, I don't think they're raising them for a fur farm."

Hazel stayed with me all Saturday. We were not able to coax any sense of understanding from the dog, though Hazel said she thought it was probably supposed to be relatively smart. Smart, perhaps, in a language neither of us spoke.

I slept on the sofa again that night, and was roused in the early morning by the sound of my front door being opened. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

The dog, who was leaning on my walking stick, turned; its ears were splayed again and it looked the very picture of a chided animal.

"Don't do that. You stay." I felt a bit silly, commanding something that walked on two legs, but at least it seemed to understand. "Stay."

I had been planning on going back into Portland to work on my paper, but my houseguest made this more difficult: I didn't think I could bring it in the car, and I didn't want to give it the run of my house. So instead, for the first part of the following week, I worked from Lincoln City.

It began to follow me around through my routine, and as the days went on it grew stronger quickly, until it no longer needed the walking stick to join me in the garden, or the kitchen, or sitting in the library going over my books.

I was busy copying down notes when I saw it get up, tilting its head at the overstuffed bookshelf. In profile, had it worn clothes, the thing would've looked quite like a person indeed, with its sure-footed stance and the curve of its spine.

But that spine ended in a heavy, fur-feathered tail, and its long fingers ended in claws rather than nails, and the curve of its rather human chest was smoothed by the same dark pelt, and its tall ears came to points that twitched and wavered quizzically whenever it pondered something. So the effect was still very alien.

It pulled a book from the shelf, and set it before me. I looked up. The dog -- I had come to think of it as a German shepherd -- glanced from me to the old leather tome. "It's a book," I said. "An old reprint of a diary from one of the first Spanish explorers in California."

As always, I couldn't tell if it understood me or not. Tail wagging slowly, it turned and pulled another book down from the shelf for my approval.

"Old survey maps. Mining claims, too, from the late 19th century. Oregon used to have a lot of mining." Another book. "Uh... this one's in French, I can't read it. It's a fur company's records."

That seemed to satisfy the dog. It let me work in peace for half an hour; then a solid thud signaled the intrusion of a heavy stone onto my desk. I knew what it was without looking -- not that I could look.

"Put it back," I ordered. The animal didn't move. "It's a thunderegg. My... wife... found it. When we were still in school and she was off on a dig."

I remembered her telling me the story of where the thundereggs came from -- a great battle between the monsters of Indian legend, hurling them as weapons across the sky. This one had cracked open, splitting clean in half. The inside was a nearly perfect star, filled with the milky opalescent gleam of Oregon agate. One in a million, Terri had said.

One in a million. "Back," I said, gritting my teeth, and pointed to the empty spot on the shelf without having to guess the direction. "Put it. Back."

And, to its credit, the dog did so. Then, tail between its legs, it slunk back to an armchair. Its ears were laid back, and its eyes flicked between the floor and the bookcase.

"I'm sorry," I said. I had the feeling that I was talking to myself. "I'm just... sensitive. To that. It hasn't been very long."

It had, in fact, been just over two years. Two years and I had not tidied up her side of the bedroom. Two years and I jumped every time my cell phone went off with an 'unknown caller.' Mr. Sanderson? You're Terri Frances Sanderson's husband? And the sound of the phone falling, shattering on the floor...

"I didn't mean to be so cross," I reassured my mute companion.

But it was not until the next day that it took another book down from the shelf. It followed my movements, turning the pages -- far too quickly to be reading them, but the effect at least was to render the shepherd quite studious indeed.

Hazel stopped by on Wednesday, and volunteered to do some bloodwork. To my surprise, the dog did not protest -- just held out its arm silently, and ignored the needle stuck into it. In less than a week, a steady diet had rendered it clearly healthier: its coat had filled out, and its eyes no longer seemed quite so sorrowful when they looked at me from its position in the easy chair.

"In good shape, so far as I can tell," Hazel said, when she returned for dinner that evening. "And nothing yet from the company?"

"Nothing yet."

"Has it said anything?"

"No."

"Hmm," Hazel shrugged. Across the table from her, the dog was licking the bones of a piece of fried chicken until it was autoclave-clean. "You know, Ken, I might almost think you enjoy the company."

That was a little complicated. Besides me, nobody had regularly occupied the house in Lincoln City since Terri's death, and it was difficult to imagine that anyone ever would. Certainly not a dog: between the two of us, Terri had always been the animal lover.

Thursday morning the doorbell rang twice. The first I was expecting: it was the deliveryman, bringing me a new shipment of papers from the university library in Berkeley. I was busy poring over these when the bell rang again, and I found two men in business suits on my front porch.

"Dr. Sanderson, I presume?" the one on the right asked.

"That's me."

"Might we come in?"

"I'm a little busy," I told them. I was operating under the assumption that they were missionaries, and I had not had much use for faith in the preceding years. "Perhaps we could hurry this along?"

"Uh. Certainly, doctor," said the one on the left. He was shorter than his companion, and a bit stouter. "I'm Dr. Simon Burroughs, and this is Tim Short. We're with GeneMark, down in Silicon Valley. You sent us an E-mail last weekend..."

"Oh! Yes, I did. Fine, fine," I stepped back from the doorway. "Come in. Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine," Short said, and followed Burroughs's lead into my house. "Do you still have the object?"

"Yes. I wasn't about to let it go. I..." They might not have wanted something to drink, but I decided that I could've used some brandy. "I didn't say in the E-mail, but I... ah. Might have hit it with my car. It was at night..."

Tim laughed. "Yeah, well, they're hard to see. No permanent damage, right?"

"No, no. At least -- none that I can tell." I guided them down the hall, and opened the door to the library. At seeing my guests, the dog stiffened as it never had when Hazel or I entered the room. Its ears went back, and I caught its eyes flicking over to the window. "Bit nervous?"

"New situations tend to upset them. They're intelligent, but... a bit skittish," Tim explained.

"I haven't really been able to communicate with... it? Her?"

"It," Dr. Burroughs told me. "That's not a surprise. They're non-verbal. We've been trying to teach them English for years. Nothing. Shelley," he commanded; the dog's ears flicked, but stayed back. Burroughs signed something quickly, and the dog signed back.

"I hope it hasn't been too much trouble?" Tim asked.

"No." I was watching Burroughs and the creature, who was now signing back quickly. "What's it saying?"

"It's saying, ah... it's saying thank you, first of all. It says you've treated it well. It's looking forward to going back home. Shelley, has Dr. Sanderson been a good host? Shelley says you've been very kind, but it's time for it to leave now."

This was an awful lot to get out of the gestures, and I noticed that the dog had not stopped. Its paw moved swiftly, its pace bordering on desperation. "That's it?"

"Ah, it's telling a story about going north. It says it was cold. Frightened. Really looking forward to returning to California. We have good facilities for them there..."

"Really, it's no surprise it wants to leave," Tim added.

Despite the calmness of their voices, something about the scene rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn't that I didn't trust the pair, but the dog's increasing agitation made me suspicious. "Hey... I'm sorry, but I don't actually think I saw any... like... deed of ownership or anything..."

"We weren't certain you still had it," Tim shrugged. "Dr. Solomon didn't want to go through the hassle of having our legal department draw something up. If it's for claiming expenses or something, just let me know how much it cost you and I'll pay you in cash -- for the damage to your car, too, if there was any."

"No, no." I shook my head. "That's not it. I just, ah." Very carefully, since they were both paying attention to the dog, I fished my cell phone from my pocket, and dialed the first two digits of 9-1-1. "But can you please prove that you own this thing?"

"Of course we do," Tim laughed. "I mean, why else would we be here?"

"Shelley, we own you, right?" Dr. Burroughs asked, accenting the question with a series of signs. The dog -- Shelley -- signed back sharply. "Shelley says of course; it shouldn't be a problem. We should in any case be leaving now..."

"Look... I don't want to cause problems, but I need to see some proof. Otherwise this doesn't seem right. So just, you know. Contact your legal department, get them to fax over the papers, and come back..."

Dr. Burroughs turned away from the dog to look at me warily. "Surely that won't be necessary, Dr. Sanderson. We can just be on our way with the object."

Thumb resting on my phone, I tried to sound firm -- firm as a college professor can. "Ah, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm sorry."

"Come now," Tim's voice had lost much of its mirth. "Don't be worried, Dr. Sanderson. We can send you the forms later. It's all in good order."

"I'm sure," I said. "But if you don't leave, I'm going to call the cops."

Tim and the doctor looked at one another. Then they looked at the dog, who had been staring Dr. Burroughs down. "You really want to do that? You've just admitted to a hit-and-run, after all..."

"Yes. Now please leave. Come back when everything's in order." I tried to sound at once calm and authoritative -- nonthreatening. As though I was dealing with an unpredictable horse.

The two exchanged glances once again; then, at last, nodded. "As you wish, Dr. Sanderson," Burroughs said. "We'll be back soon."

They had not been unfriendly at any point. They were well-dressed; their car was clean and new, with California plates. I could not say what it was, exactly, that had put me so on edge about their presence in my house, but I was happy when the door closed behind them, and I watched through the peephole with relief as the luxury SUV pulled out of my driveway.

I poured myself a glass of brandy and returned to the library; the shepherd was seated motionless, staring past me into the hallway as if expecting their return at any moment. "They're gone," I told it. "I asked them to come back with papers." And I sighed, leaning against the bookshelf to look at the dog. "Not that you understand me."

Its ears were back, but its eyes had not lost their fire. It looked a great deal like the cornered animal I supposed it was. Its muzzle opened -- for the first time, really, I saw its sharp canine teeth. And then: "I won't go back there."

I heard the dog talk a second or so before I heard the glass of brandy hit the floor. "What the hell? You can talk?"

It was still staring at the doorframe. "I'll kill them before I go back. I swear it, Mr. Sanderson. Dr. Sanderson."

"Ken," I managed. The brandy, oozing around broken glass, was beginning to soak into my socks. I ignored it. "You can talk?"

"Yes," it said. "They don't know that, though. They weren't lying to you."

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

"I was hoping that I wouldn't have to. They'd just use it for something... terrible. I don't know what, but everything they do is terrible. I won't go back, Ken." The dog's voice was quiet, and intense. Over the phone it would've passed for human, although it was a little husky and coarse-edged. Audrey Hepburnesque. "I'll die first. Or those two will. Or all three of us..."

"Let's assume," I said, and finally gathered my wits enough to begin gathering up the broken glass. "Let's assume that it won't come to that."

"You seem like a nice person. I'm... I'm hoping you understand me..."

"No. I didn't even know you had a name."

"Just what they call me..."

"Shelley?"

Finally, its ears lifted slightly. "I guess it doesn't sound so bad when you say it. Yes, then. But it's all a joke. They like to joke about things like that. They called the first one they made Wells, after the author."

"HG Wells?"

"The Island of Doctor Moreau," Shelley said. "That's supposed to be funny. I'm named after Mary Shelley. Get it? Ha, ha." It pronounced the syllables aloud, rather than actually laughing.

"You weren't a human before?"

"No. Completely artificial. I almost wish you hadn't hit the brakes. I can't go back to Davis," it repeated for the third time.

With the bits of glass swept into the rubbish bin, I took a careful seat at the edge of my desk. "Look, I see that..."

"No you don't. If you saw it, you wouldn't have let them in to begin with. It's alright... I'm not blaming you. You didn't know. I didn't tell you."

"I sort of assumed you were... not... an animal exactly, but not... well, I assumed that you didn't understand me..."

Shelley looked away from the door, finally, and towards me. "Actions speak louder than words, don't they? I understood that when I needed a bath you offered me the tub instead of spraying me with a garden hose. I understood that you fed me... that you gave me a place to sleep..."

And I was thinking of all the times I had spoken to it as I would've a dog: sit, stay, come here, don't do that. "I just wish I'd known."

"You were very kind," Shelley said. "I'm going to leave tonight -- after it gets dark. That way, when they come back..."

"You don't have to leave, if you don't want to. We can try to figure something out when they come back..."

"I would rather not take that chance," the dog said. And considering that it -- she -- had knowledge of what went on in Davis, and I did not, I decided that it was not my place to decide.

I found an old backpack of mine, back from my hiking days, and filled it with food and water. We ate dinner quietly, waiting for the sun to go down, and when twilight had settled in to roost on Lincoln City the dog stood, and said that it was time to go.

"Only if you really want to," I offered again.

The dog shook her head. And then, before I could say anything, she wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I was caught off guard -- but then I returned it, more tightly than I'd thought I might. Shelley's body was warm, and the dog's fur still smelled slightly of honeysuckle from the shampoo I'd offered nearly a week before.

"If anything comes up, my door will be open," I said. She was very soft, and the embrace was quite comfortable, and were it not for the texture of her fur under my arms I might've taken her for a human being. "But I hope you stay safe."

She said that she would, and then she was gone.

Burroughs and Short returned the next day, and as apologetically as I could I said that the dog had gone -- that it was not my idea, that I did not know where it had made its way off to, and that I wished I could help them. "Sorry for how I behaved," I said, although I was not sorry at all. "Maybe it's headed south again? You said it really wanted to go home..."

They didn't entirely believe my story, I could tell. But together we went through every room of the house, and it was clear that there was nobody else living with me. Outside, in the back yard, they found footprints leading away, and that was good enough for them.

"Good riddance," Hazel told me, regarding both Shelley and the two men from AGMC. I said that I agreed.

But I wasn't really certain. I was sleeping in my bed again, instead of the sofa, and if I closed my eyes and focused I could catch the faint smell of honeysuckle and the dog's own scent. It was, after a fashion, hard to believe she was gone.

And my house felt very empty, and far too large.

I immersed myself in the revisions of my paper, and tried to pretend that it could carry all of my attention. And for some reason, even as I pored over those old frontier journals, I kept looking up to the empty armchair.

A week and a half later on Sunday, for the first time in more than two years, I went to church and listened to Father Polley talk about a pearl of great price. Things there were, he said, of such value that one might give up everything he had to possess them. For one did not have such opportunities often.

I had never been particularly religious; between the two of us, that had been Terri's world more than mine. I understood that the pearl was meant to stand for salvation, and faith, and eternal life -- but I thought of how quiet the solitude of my existence was, and how loudly the silence echoed in the empty rooms of my house.

"It's been a while, Kenneth," Father Polley smiled to see my approach. He was a kind-faced man who seemed far younger than the year of his birth would've suggested.

"I have... a question..."

In as much detail as I could I explained what had happened; I explained that I did not know what to make of Shelley's presence, or the weight of her absence, or the significance of her creation at all.

"I suppose it's... an affront, isn't it? Against God. I should try to forget her."

"If what you're saying is true," Polley said, "I wouldn't be worried about you. The real wickedness seems to have been with the creature's captors, which you helped them to evade. That was a good deed."

"Even if the thing itself was... unnatural? Hazel Ballard was saying the whole thing is an... abomination. I should wipe my hands of it."

The pastor smiled. "Is that for me to judge? For you, Kenneth? In the book of Matthew, we read of a man who sowed his field in good wheat. But one of his enemies snuck into his field, and planted weeds there. When they started to sprout, everyone could see that some of the blades looked funny, and the farmer's servants came to him, and said: 'how has this happened? Should we go and pull out the weeds?' What do you think he said?"

"'Yes'? Otherwise they would... pollute the rest of the crop. Right?"

"He said, 'no. Don't dig up the weeds, in case you pull up the wheat with it. Wait until harvest time, when we can see the difference clearly. Then we can take up the weeds first, and then gather the wheat.' In other words, it's not for us to make those decisions -- certainly you or I can't decide what's an 'abomination.' In the Army I would've said that it was... above my pay grade."

"So it's okay that I care."

Father Pollard nodded. "It's one of most important questions. We're told to love our neighbor. But who is our neighbor? Sometimes the most profound thing we can do is to extend a hand when we don't know who the recipient is -- without asking if they deserve it first."

Ever so slightly mollified, I decided that it was time to stop beating myself up over my regrets. Shelley had been interesting to have around, and I probably needed something like companionship anyway. Particularly, I was reminded by the July heat, in the long lull between semesters.

I resolved to go back to Portland Monday, and settled down in my library to work. It would make my life easier if I could tell what books I needed from the university archives before I set foot back on campus. My list was up to a dozen tomes, and I was feeling rather productive, when I heard a series of sharp taps against the window.

Startled, I turned. There was no one there. The tapping came again, and I glanced down just in time to see a dark finger disappearing from the bottom pane. Not for the first time, I wondered why I didn't have a shotgun -- but I cracked the window open slightly. "Hello?"

"Ken?"

"Shelley?" I pulled the window all the way up, and leaned outside. "That you?"

She appeared from the shadows, a lump made misshapen by my backpack. "Can I come in?"

"The front door was too... what?"

"Conspicuous," she said.

She handed me the backpack through the window, and I helped her pull herself inside. "Welcome back."

The shepherd hugged me again; the honeysuckle was gone, and she smelled mostly of herself. I didn't mind it so much. "I'm sorry for having to do it like this. I... you had offered, and..."

"It's fine. What happened?"

She took a deep breath, and finally let me go. "They're following me. I don't know how. I think they can... track me... maybe. I've had a couple of close escapes... I haven't slept in three days. I'm just..."

"Are you hungry?" She nodded. "Let's take care of that first." I heated up some chili, and poured her a generous bowlful. When she took a seat on the sofa, I sat next to her. "You're certain they're following you?"

The shepherd's muzzle was buried in the bowl, and she pulled it away stained with tomato. Licking her muzzle, she nodded shakily. "Certain. Too close, otherwise. They have helicopters, and... tracking men with -- well, with dogs. Ironic, huh?" Now, when she laughed, the sound was genuine.

"What are you going to do?"

Shelley looked away, and didn't answer.

She declined a glass of brandy when I offered it, but it helped to sooth my nerves. I watched her finish the bowl of chili, and then another. The clock struck half past ten. "When do you think they'll come?"

"The helicopters would... raise too many questions now... I think they'll wait until the morning."

"You'll run away again?" She shook her head. "Perhaps if you got some rest, you'd be able to make a clearer decision..."

My bed was still unmade -- a bad habit of mine. I hoped that she wouldn't mind. Indeed, she sat down on it heavily, and the sigh that left her muzzle gave me reason to believe it was more comfort than she'd had since leaving my house the last time around.

"I'll see you in the morning," I told her, and turned for the door.

"Stay..."

"What?"

Shelley smiled hopefully. "Stay? I don't want to chase you out of your own bedroom... at least stay for a little while?"

I looked at the bed, and wasn't quite certain why it seemed so strange, why it was so difficult to do as she'd suggested. It wasn't until I'd settled on the foot of the bed that I realized it. Two years since I'd felt the way another body weighed down the mattress. Then it had been my pearl of inestimable price. Now...

"I wanted... to tell you... something..." The dog spoke hesitantly. "If you don't... mind."

"No." She was behind me, somewhere; I was facing the closed door. Two years. "What is it?"

Movement; the springs shifted. She was sitting right behind me. "I can't keep running. I know what they're going to do with me, if they take me, but I..." I turned, and saw that her ears were laid back. "I can't do this forever. I came back because..."

"Because why?"

She swallowed. "I wanted to see you again. You and your friend are the only ones who ever treated me kindly. I wanted that to be the last thing I remembered... and..."

I paused, and when she saw the frown start to form she leaned forward, and a moment later her broad tongue was spread over the side of my face. "Wait --"

"Thank you," she finished. And she licked my cheek again.

With a sigh, I let myself fall backwards, until I was staring up at the ceiling, and the strange creature that filled the edge of my vision. Canine or not, she almost seemed to be smiling. "You're welcome."

"At least when I'm here I can be safe -- happy. For a little bit, at least..."

"To be honest..." Because I couldn't avoid the truth any longer. "To be honest, I... I was worried about you. When you weren't here." And, what the hell, might as well go all out: "I missed you."

Her head cocked. "Really?"

"Really. I'm glad you came back."

"I thought you might... be glad to be rid of me."

"No. No! Not at all... it's a bit boring here, just me and my papers. It was good to have some company. Even if we did meet under unusual circumstances."

The tilt to her head eased, and I heard her tail thump, and the sound of quiet chuckling. "I really judged that sprint badly."

"And I was tired. Coming back from the library -- no excuse, but..."

"I didn't ask -- well... you didn't know that I could ask, when I had the time... what were you working on, anyway?"

"A paper. I'm a history professor. I was writing about... well... I wrote a paper about evidence for Spanish influence in the Pacific Northwest."

"And that's what you were doing?"

I had to smile at her expression. Her ears were perked -- as a dog, it was impossible to hide her curiosity. "Yes. I had submitted it for publication. The committee wants a bunch of changes -- more evidence to support my timeline, basically. There's just not a whole lot about the Spanish here. I think there's good reason to believe that there was European influence before the fur trade came, but... outside of a few Indian stories..."

"What about the Santo Cristo de Burgos?"

"The what?"

When her muzzle widened, it looked very much like a grin indeed. "A Spanish galleon coming from Manila. It went down in 1693, probably, somewhere just off the coast."

I shut my eyes and groaned. "Right. How could I have forgotten? The Nehalem wreck. But... how did you know about that?"

"I read it," she said. "In one of the books you let me look at."

She had paged through them so quickly I'd just assumed she wasn't picking up anything but the motions of reading. "You actually read those books?"

"Yes. I read everything. The trashy romance novels my handlers left in their locker. Handouts on the Constitution I found lying around at a rest area. Instruction manuals. That kind of thing... I get bored easily. Out in the forest, at least I had my survival to worry about. But here, I was... well... safe. I wish I could've spent more time in a place like this. Or in a library like that. I wish I had time now..."

"So do I. I'm glad you came back," I admitted.

Shelley put a paw on my shoulder, and scratched at me thoughtfully with her claws. "Really?"

"Really."

With an arch to her back, she leaned down, and licked my face again. Her paw was still at my shoulder, and then it was joined by its mate. Before I could really piece together what had happened, the canine had straddled me, and was flattening herself atop my body.

She was very, very warm, and when I settled my hands on her back I found that her fur was every bit as soft as I remembered it. I ran my fingers through her fur, from her bony shoulders down to the shepherd's slim hips, and her tail betrayed her happiness in a giddy wag.

So I did it again.

And again.

Shelley gave my nose a sloppy lick. "Ken?"

"Mm?" Such nice, warm, plush fur she had... I couldn't help hugging her against me.

"When you saw me for the first time, I bet you thought I was a monster."

The memory of such a poor misunderstanding on my part bid me hug her closely again. She tensed, and her tail wagged faster, making me feel a little less guilty about my answer. "Yeah."

"But you don't now."

"Of course not."

"I kind of am..."

She kind of was. With her sharp teeth, and her sharp ears, and her piercing brown eyes. And her human body, covered in an animal's warm pelt. And her tail. And her canine panting. And her claws. "No. Not at all."

The shepherd gave me another canine smile, and rolled onto her side so that I didn't have to bear her weight. But I wanted to -- so I rolled with her, keeping her soft body close to my own. Her arms encircled my back, and she snuggled up and against me. "If you say so." And she nuzzled her way into my neck. Her nose was cold, and when I shivered I was rewarded with the sound of her laughter.

For a few minutes we remained still like that; she nosed me, grooming my chest beneath the loose fabric of my t-shirt. The heat of her fuzzy hips suddenly pressed decisively against mine, and I grunted in surprise. "Shelley?"

A flea-bite came in answer. And she shoved her hips against mine again. I half-heartedly tried to pull away, to give her some more room -- but then she wrapped her leg around me, and her grasp was very, very strong. "Stay," she commanded. It was the second time she'd given me that order.

Monster or no, I couldn't help myself; as her hips ground against me, I started to feel my arousal building -- first as I began to stiffen, then as I began to answer her movements in kind. The first time I did it she growled, and nipped me again. The second time the growl came as more of a moan, and I buried my face in the fur of her cheek. "You learn that from a book, too?"

"Uh huh. Different book." The trashy romance novels, maybe.

Her muscles were taut, tense under my fingers. I sank them through her fur wantonly, caressing her rear, tracing the back of the thigh that held me in a tight lock. More growling. More tense shudders.

I couldn't pry her away, but with some effort I slipped my hand between her leg and mine. The silky fur of her inner thighs was glorious and soft and when I stroked her there Shelley's tail wagged fiercely, thumping hard against the bed.

It relaxed her enough that I could wriggle away. Not to make my escape -- to map the smooth fur of her thighs as I worked my way along her leg until the fur ended. A gasp, a hard nudge of her nose into my throat. Wet, slippery warmth against my finger. I slid the digit over that smooth heat her once or twice or half a dozen times and her growling breath washed over my skin, raising goosebumps when it ended as her breath caught.

Her leg was quivering. I used my chest to lean into her, pushing her onto her back, and she didn't protest.

And I didn't either. But I thought that if I hesitated, if I stopped to think about things, then I might've -- so I didn't give myself that chance. I slid from the bed, down and over her lean dark-furred body, and my feet came to solid ground just as I found my way between her supple thighs.

Claws nicked my neck; my ears. Then I ran my tongue over those wet lips and the grasping claws tightened. Shelley's moan was coarse and throaty, unpracticed. I worked my tongue along her slit again, and again, and by the third time the hold of her fingers had started to relax as she panted and arched her hips into me.

I wondered about her kind's sense of smell. Her scent was strong -- thick, wild, and not at all unpleasant or overpowering. I inhaled deeply, and nuzzled closer as my tongue worked its way inside her and the musky, earthy tang of her fluids spread over me.

Her breathing quickened as I explored her, letting my instincts take over, my tongue circling and questing deeper. I chanced a glance upwards and saw that the shepherd's eyes were shut tightly, but her mouth was open and she was licking hungrily at her own muzzle.

Deep, huffing pants now, and a shuddering of her sinuous body. Her hips bucked, so that I had to work to stay in place. She was so strong -- she could've easily overpowered me, thrown me off, except that her desperate squirming was only pressing her body closer, and closer, and closer.

A groan, and then I heard rending fabric. Before I had the chance to thank god she'd shown more restraint with the claws bunched at my ear Shelley let out a yelp and her body rocked sharply, her lithe spine curling back until the canine woman formed an arch you could've driven a boat under. Her legs were locked straight, all the power in her strong muscles keeping her aloft, and it occurred to me that one wrong move would've snapped my neck.

Wild, that sight; that keening call of passion. She held it for long, trembling seconds -- and then collapsed. Her muzzle was out of sight above her heaving chest. I had to stand in order to see her again. Shelly looked... dazed. But: "come here," she begged. "Please, come here..."

And so I did, scooting forward to join her on the bed.

Now those claws seemed less dangerous, stroking my chest weakly and then trailing lower. Her fingers tugged my shirt up, and I obligingly worked it the rest of the way off. She twisted to face me. Smiled while her paw danced over the smooth skin of my side. "Wasn't in the book..."

"Things to learn then, still..."

Her fingers plucked at my trousers. She drew them taut; it only exacerbated the tightness I felt in the crotch of the old khakis, which were maybe a size too small anyway. Then she let them go, and a few seconds later the tightness released itself abruptly: she had undone my belt, and the button of the pants, and the zipper had undone itself all of its own clever accord. "Like this?" Warm fingers traced the rigid outline beneath my boxers.

I groaned, and kicked my trousers away so that, when she next went for my undergarments, her job was easier. Now one paw was at my bare ass, and the palm of her other -- velvet fur and rough fingerpads and all -- was rubbing at my shaft playfully. I nudged myself closer. "Like that," I agreed.

Who needed a book for that, anyway? Shelley turned onto her back, and in the same fluid movement pulled me along for the ride with her paw at my back. I fell between her legs, surrounded by plush, warm, welcoming fur. The rise and fall of her chest tickled me, and I looked down at her with a smile she answered gratefully.

When I straightened up I felt the head of my shaft nuzzle through her fur until it bumped against something warm and soft and moist. I pressed forward against momentary resistance -- then her tight, silky folds had enveloped the first inch of my length and I groaned aloud. "God, Shelley..."

The dog girl's muzzle was open again, her tongue lolling, and I saw the blissful grin spread across it as I worked my way deeper inside her, inch by slow inch. She was hotter even than I'd expected, far warmer than a human, and it took every bit of my willpower not to give in then and there.

Finally I was hilted in her, taking a moment just to enjoy the feeling of her wet and close and pulsing around me. She whimpered when I started to withdraw. "No..."

"No?" The sound of my voice was alien and guttural and I didn't know how she managed to understand it.

But she had. "Stay inside me..." my canine lover whispered. "Don't -- ohhh," she gasped as I pushed back into the smooth, warm caress of her body, sinking all the way into her once more. "Yes... better..."

And as soon as I started to move, rocking my hips slowly, she moved with me, lifting her squirming hips into my steady thrusts. It had to be slow; any faster and I would've lost all control. As it was it was almost impossible -- every time I slipped back into her quivering heat she gasped again, and the sight of her pleasure-tense features, eyes shut and tongue lolling, was nearly enough...

Her whole body was expressive. Her whiskers twitched; her ears flicked as I rocked myself faster and faster between her spread thighs. Her feathery tail curled, wagging against my legs. Her tongue flicked, lapping at her lips, her nose, her muzzle -- her little whimpers coming faster and louder with the rising pace of our movements together.

I dropped my head to her chest. Thick fur blanketed me, muffling my groans; I gasped for breath through her pelt and her scent filled my nose. The pressure in my loins was building swiftly as our bodies clashed, swifter, rougher -- I felt her claws score me as she tugged me to her by my bare rear. And she was so warm, so tight around me, unlike anything I'd ever felt...

"Shelley," I groaned, fighting to slow myself, to stave off the inevitable.

"No -- don't -- harder," she begged me. Her legs wrapped around mine. Trapped, I bucked faster in that closing, tightening embrace, hearing the wet squelch every time we joined. Her voice broke into a pleading whine with the sharp movements of my nearing peak. "Don't hold back..."

I felt it rushing in on me before I could make the choice anyway. I thrust uncontrollably -- shuddering, insistent, needing to be all the way inside her. Growling, just like she'd been. Pleasure coiled tight around me, clenching like a boa, squeezing the breath from me in a groan as I went rigid and my seed spilled in warm pulses, splashing against the heated walls of her canine pussy.

Someone was howling. Claws dug in. Shelley's folds spasmed wetly around my length as I throbbed and twitched inside her with my release. I was not thinking clearly. I might not have been thinking at all -- when the pleasure had finally released its grip on my consciousness I found that I was collapsed on the shepherd's heaving chest, and her paws were petting me in erratic circles.

"W... wondered if it would... be... like that..."

"And was it?"

"Better," Shelley sighed. She stroked my arm; her claw traced the pale, hairless band where I wore my watch. "Everything was better..."

I lifted my head, catching her smile, and kissed the dog's nose. "Good."

Except that I was exhausted, and with every breath I took I knew I was growing closer to losing the battle to sleep. Shelley was yawning too, her voice weakening. "I wish," she murmured, "I wish it didn't have to end like this..."

"Tomorrow's..." I sighed, too, and smoothed the fur of her chest. "Another day. We'll figure something out."

I felt the shepherd nod. And my dreams were warm and fuzzy.

Three sharp knocks. Then another three. They came like the staccato bursts of a machine gun. When I opened my eyes I found Shelley drawn up on the bed, with bared teeth.

"Hold on," I shouted towards the door. "I'm coming."

"Ken," Shelley said. I stood, tugging on my trousers, and she rushed to me, throwing her arms around me in a crushing hug. "Thank you. For everything."

"Not over yet," I told her. Although, to be honest, I didn't see how it wasn't. As far as anyone was concerned, she was just a dog, and I was just a broken, lonely man, and the law was --

"Mr. Sanderson! Open up!" It sounded like Tim Short.

"Damn it, I hear you!" I called back. "It's eight in the damned morning!"

"You've been..."

I didn't know what she was going to say. All I knew was that I didn't want her gone -- certainly not like this. That my life had been empty for too long. That her weight on the bed, that the touch of her body, had reminded me of... of...

"Shelley. Open that dresser," I pointed. "Find something, and put it on."

At the door, I found Tim Short and Simon Burroughs, and Sheriff Pat Warren, whom I knew from years before. The last time she'd come to my door, it was with the state patrolman telling me about the accident, after I'd broken my phone in shock. Airlifted to Portland... other guy didn't make it... probably drunk...

"Hi, Dr. Sanderson," Pat said. "These two men say that you have something of theirs. May we come in?"

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Not... as such. But they said that they have a tracking device that pointed to your house. To what they're looking for."

"Do you know what it is?" I asked her.

Sheriff Warren shook her head. "No."

"Shelley," I called back into my house. A minute later she appeared. Clothed, she had a strange veneer of civilization; the sundress clung smartly to her body, and clad her in the soft blue of twilight. The last time Terri had worn it, we were picnicking at Cape Meares. Afterwards we'd gone to the Tillamook factory, and savored ice cream.

July 9th, it had been. Halfway between Independence Day and Bastille Day. The kind of day when you get to understanding how ordinary folk can up and decide that anything -- anything -- just might be possible.

"It's this," I said.

"What is it?" Warren gasped.

"Her, not it. Her name's Shelley. They would like to take her, so that they can do some experiments."

"That's not... true..." Tim Short said. "Well, it's not... quite true."

Burroughs signed to the dog, and she signed back. "She says she's ready to go. We can talk, sheriff. Through sign language."

"Can you ask her if she thinks you're going to experiment on her, in that case?" I made the question sound as innocent as I could; Burroughs looked to Warren for approval, and the sheriff nodded.

More signing. "It says 'no' and..." Burroughs narrowed his eyes, and seemed to be deep in thought. "Something about... it doesn't know where he got that idea from."

"Is that," I asked, turning back to the dog. "Is that what you said?"

And she suddenly knew what I was putting her on the spot for. As Sheriff Warren and Burroughs and I watched, she shook her head quickly.

"Well, this is ridiculous," Dr. Burroughs said. "You don't know how to interpret their gestures."

"She doesn't want to go back, sheriff. The things they plan on doing would be cruel to an animal. But to something -- some_one_ -- who can object? I don't think that they should be permitted to do so."

"You don't know that. And what it does or does not want is irrelevant," Tim Short said. "Come on, sheriff, this is our property now..."

"Sheriff Warren, I'm sorry to put you on the spot, but... do you recall, from the top of your head, the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution?"

More bemused than anything, she shook her head. "Can't say that I do."

"Shelley," I said firmly. "A refresher?"

"What do you mean? Why are you talking at it?" Tim Short demanded to know.

The shepherd flicked her ears. "All persons born or naturalized in the United States --"

"What the fuck," Burroughs snapped, his veneer suddenly broken. "It can talk? When did it start --"

"-- And subject to the jurisdiction thereof are citizens of the United States, and of the State wherein they reside. No state shall make -- or enforce -- any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States. Nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. Nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. Representatives shall be --"

"Hold on a moment, Shelley," I said. "Sheriff Warren, I guess there's been some due process behind these two men asking you to re-enslave Shelley for them?"

"They just... asked for their property... back..." Warren muttered.

"But I don't want to go back," Shelley said. "I'd rather die."

Burroughs and Short seemed to sense that they were losing control. "Sheriff, I appreciate theater as much as the next person," Dr. Burroughs said, in as commanding a tone as he could muster.

"You lied when you signed to me," the shepherd spoke before anyone else could. "You signed to me that I should 'come along quietly,' and you didn't translate a single word of what I said."

"I'll be honest with you two," Pat Warren said. "I'm not real comfortable with what you're asking for now. It would be different if she said she wanted to go along. But now she's saying she doesn't, and... that you weren't honest with me. I'd need to see a warrant for her arrest, and then she'd come along to jail. I'm not going to turn a person over to you --"

"-- Not a person," Burroughs said. "It's a... it's like in that book. Doctor Moreau. It's an animal we've improved. Don't think of it as a person. Call it a moreau."

"I'm not going to turn a person over to you," Sheriff Warren repeated, as though she was speaking to an idiot, "just because she looks funny. So I guess she has sanctuary here. And if you're going to keep insisting otherwise, then I'm going to have to suggest I think you ought to get out of my town."

"Well, I --"

"Don't know what things are like in California," Warren drawled. "In my town, if a sheriff suggests something, it's not really a suggestion."

Tim Short's answer was to say that 'this,' left undefined, 'wasn't over.' But it was three against two, and one of us had very sharp teeth and one of us had a Glock. For the second time, relief swept over me as I watched the SUV pull away.

"Thanks for keeping my life interesting," Warren said.

"Sorry." I had been sweating, I realized. "Do you want to come in for breakfast? I can make some waffles..."

Shelley's ears perked, and her tail wagged, and perhaps this piqued Warren's curiosity, for the sheriff shrugged. "Guess I oughta get a deposition, anyway. So tell me, Shelley. What made you decide to come to Lincoln City?"

"I hadn't planned on it," the dog said. "I guess you could say it just kind of... struck me one night. But I'm glad I did... and I'm glad Dr. Sanderson helped me."

My back was to the pair as I mixed up the batter, so they couldn't see my smile. They couldn't see that I had realized who my neighbor was; that I had learned the sort of thing that might be worth paying any price for. That as she talked, I recalled a hot summer night, and the rest of my life opening up at last before me.

One in a million...