FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Dodger trotted through the crowded streets of New York, humming to himself merrily as he weaved through the legs of businessmen, children, hippies, and everyone in between. He kept his head on a swivel, scanning the busy area for opportunity. The noises that came to his attention included vendors barking their confident advertisement, angry drivers shouting obscenities and honking at each other, busy construction sites, and children simply enjoying their vacation. It was an absolutely GORGEOUS summer day, the sun was directly overhead, and when there wasn't a person or a car blocking the light, the sun would pleasantly warm Dodger's fur. He thought as he passed two street performers playing a harmonica and a bass guitar. Days like this always seem to bring one back to "reality" where the present is all that matters, and all other notions tend to escape attention. Why couldn't every day be like this? A light breeze tickled his nose, and it smelled strongly of vehicle exhaust. Today, however, it was unusually sweet. Every now and then someone would stop in their tracks to reach down and pet him, and Dodger would oblige, halting long enough for them to scritch behind his ears, before promptly returning to his trot.

He padded down the sidewalk at a relaxed pace, his grey paws ever so lightly brushing the ground, but with purpose. Yeah, it was hard to focus on a day as cheerful as this, but as his stomach growled, he was reminded of the task at hand, and he wasn't the only one that he needed to feed. He would dig through dumpsters if the better part of the day passed by and he came up empty-pawed, but he didn't want to if he could avoid it. No, he wanted to sink his teeth into something worth eating, if at all possible. Besides, being part of an underground community of scavengers and survivalists, he understood that dumpsters were a somewhat territorial matter, and depending on whose stomping grounds you're on, it could earn you the disdain of a certain canine or two. Also, the dumpsters hardly yield anything, as they're consistently being raided by more than a few strays, so unless you happen to be combing through the garbage less than a few minutes after someone pitches their leftover Christmas ham, you most likely won't find much gold.

Dodger hummed Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up" as he trudged past multiple vendors, all of which had unusually long lines. He spotted more than one canine following pedestrians away from the kiosks, hoping to score a bit of their hot dogs and BBQ sandwiches. Dodger briefly considered doing this for himself, but quickly censored the impulse. It really wasn't his style to beg. If possible, he wanted to find a vendor with little to no traffic, as to attract minimal publicity when he snatched the main ingredient. He watched a thickset man in a white tee, khaki shorts and flip flops drop a hunk of BBQ on the ground as he bit hungrily into his sandwich, and Dodger picked up his pace as to get to it before any other canines noticed. He lapped it off the ground without stopping, flicked it into his mouth, and ate. It wasn't much, but it was damn good. As he trudged onward, however, he grew increasingly annoyed at how busy ALL of the vendors seemed to be today. The cost of such an undeniably beautiful day, he reasoned.

He stopped, his ears perked up and tail wagging when he saw a sandwich cart with only two people in line. The advertisement on the umbrella over the cart read "Bertie's Deli." He grinned as the two customers walked away, and he approached the stand, eyeing the bread on display in the basket. He would do what he usually did - create a racket, provoke the vendor to chase him away, then double back, jump up, knock the basket over, snatch the bread, and run like hell. His mouth watered with anticipation, but he came to a grinding halt and cursed when he saw the vendor take the bread and put it into a bag. That's why there was no traffic, Dodger realized grudgingly. The two customers had been turned away due to the fact that the vendor was in the process of closing. Dodger padded away dejected. No more than moments after this disappointment, however, did he stop short of a parked box truck outside a butcher shop. Once again, his ears perked up as he watched two men in aprons take turns wheeling their dollies into the shop, coming out with a dolly full of packaged meat, stepping onto the lift, and neatly unloading onto the truck. The scent of fresh sausage filled Dodger's muzzle, and he lifted his nose high in the air, taking in as much as possible, making his mouth water. As he came down from his euphoria, he looked and realized that there were four more men in aprons standing outside the butcher shop, casually leaned up against the wall, puffing their cigarettes, and probably enjoying avoiding work. They had noticed him, and they were watching him, undeniably anticipating his intentions. He resumed his trot, now with a spring in his step, humming "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin as he passed the men like he hadn't seen a thing. He would have to stop the truck in a few lights, and he would need to recruit some help. As he passed the front of the truck, he broke into a run. He didn't anticipate the truck leaving for a while at least, but finding help might take a while.

As Dodger belted down the walk, the crowd seemed to part as people saw him coming. He flew past boutiques, pizza parlors and record stores, only blurs in his eyes. He narrowly dodged a parking meter that had been previously hidden by the crowd, and moved further away from the road. He had actually had a painful experience involving a parking meter a couple months before that he had no interest in reliving. After he had run for a few blocks, he hung a right towards a park upon seeing the signal that said "WALK." When he stepped onto the walk at the other side, he slowed to a saunter and approached the grass, where he sat to rest. The traffic behind him resumed, and the noise picked up significantly as the buses and taxis accelerated. He picked up his paw and lapped at it as he sat, winding down as his mind moved away from the fleeting buildings and came to rest with him there on the grass.

As Dodger's eyes moved to different corners of the park, he saw young people, walking briskly as they sipped their coffee, old people, sitting on benches, their weary eyes following the younger people as they hurried through the park, and several people simply enjoying the day. Children on vacation scuttled and climbed through the playground in one area while their parents sat on the adjacent benches and talked about grown up things. Couples strolled casually through the park while their dogs hung at the end of their leads, some tending to stop and examine every detail of the area, others contently following their owners directly beside them. One man was throwing a frisbee, his retriever in hot pursuit, jumping to intercept the object, while his wife sat behind him on a blanket with their infant child sitting next to her in his stroller, intently turning his colorful plastic fidget over in his tiny hands. But the thing that caught Dodger's attention was a snow white canine, who, Dodger could see through the bushes, strangely enough, appeared to have his head stuck in the handrail. Perfect, Dodger thought to himself. A distressed dog is an approachable dog. He stood up and made for the rail, strutting ever so slightly, as Dodger would tend to do, grinning a little. "Why can't... I... bend... these stupid bars?" Dodger heard him growl to himself. Perhaps stranger than the shepherd's lamentation, however, was that he had a jet black lightning bolt insignia emblazoned on his snow white fur over his ribcage. Also, attached to his black collar was a blue leash, indicating that he had probably slipped away from someone who had been trying to corral him. The dog was similar in size to Dodger, perhaps smaller, if only very slightly. Dodger approached the shepherd, confused, but somewhat amused. "Hey, kid, take it easy," said Dodger. The white dog glared up at him. "I will not take it easy. I am missing my person," he grunted as he continued to struggle. "and don't call me kid." "Alright, chill," said Dodger, slightly taken aback. The dog continued his efforts to yank his head free, seemingly unaffected by Dodger's presence. He placed his front paws on the rails and tugged as hard as he could. "Hey, but listen, all you gotta do is tilt your head a little. That's all." The dog paused for a second and looked at Dodger. The terrier had a friendly grin on his face as he sat where he stood. The shepherd again placed his paws on the bars, tilted his head to one side, and pushed against the bars with all his might. His ears smushed down, and before long he was able to slide free, falling on his back and grunting as he did so. He rolled around and sat up, shaking out his head, and just stared at the ground, exhausted, still working desperately to grasp the situation. As he caught his breath, Dodger made his way over the rail, moved around the dog and sat down in front of him. "Hey, man, that really stinks that you lost your person," sympathized Dodger. Looking at him, Dodger decided that this dog looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't quite put his paw on where he had seen him. His eyes landed on the dog's tag. "Bolt" was his name. A fitting name, he reasoned. Dodger also noticed the address. His eyes grew wide when he read "Hollywood." "And it looks like you're REALLY far from home, too." Bolt looked up at him, with utter confusion in his eyes. "What happened to him? Or... her?" "A man with a green eye has her kidnapped. Where am I?" Bolt followed up on Dodger's first remark. "You're in New York," answered Dodger. New York. Bolt's lips mimicked the words as he stared at the ground, his face twisted with confusion. Dodger looked on with worry, and offered his paw. "Name's Dodger," he said. Bolt didn't look at Dodger. He continued to observe his surroundings with apparent disorientation. He only half-wittingly accepted Dodger's paw. "Bolt," the dog said, not really paying attention. Dodger looked again at the mark on Bolt's side. "Well, if you don't mind me asking, what's with the uh... bolt?" Bolt noticed what he was looking at. "Don't worry about it." Bolt said passively. His eyes came to rest on a pink object near his paw. At once, his expression became edgy and wary. He stood up and hunkered down, shying away slightly, as if the object would bite him. He nudged it with his paw. "What are these things?" Bolt said, bewildered. "They've weakened me!" Dodger didn't even bother asking, he just glared at Bolt, before bowing down to sniff at the object. He snapped back upwards with a quizzical expression. "Well, that's a Styrofoam packing peanut!" As he looked back up, his eyes found a bus on the other side of the park. The advertisement on the side read "Bolt - The Super Dog! Thursdays 8pm" Dodger's eyes grew wide. It had a picture of the very dog he was standing in front of. And then it clicked - Dodger had seen this guy on TV a couple of times. DUH! Dodger honestly couldn't believe how ridiculously long it had taken for this to dawn on him. He wasn't necessarily a fan of the show... but he absolutely knew who he was. Dodger was no fool, and now he understood that this poor guy was a Hollywood actor, who didn't even know what he did was an act, and had somehow ended up in New York. He could discern that much just from the few times he had seen Bolt on TV. Not only that, but he seemed to be under the impression that his person had been abducted by the "bad guys" when in reality she was probably home in Hollywood worried sick about him. He knew how Hollywood treated its animals. Well, there was no point in complicating matters by trying to explain it to him, Dodger reasoned, and he had a hell of a long trip ahead of him - He would more than definitely figure it out on his own before long. No, for now it was probably best to get him to help, get him fed, and point him in the right direction. But still... the poor dude! Then he remembered... he had mouths to feed. His seasoned wit had no problem quickly developing a plan with respect to Bolt's situation... "Hey, listen, man. I think I can help you." Bolt was still assessing and cowering away from the styrofoam, but his ears perked up at hearing this. "You see, I know a lot of guys, and I hear a lot of things, if you know what I mean." Bolt jumped up at this. "You know where Penny is?" Bolt said, with a bit of animosity. "Where is she? Tell me what you know!" he drilled fervently, ears flattened. "Hey, easy, easy..." said Dodger, backing away slightly. "I want to help you, I'm on your side, but first you need to mellow out a bit, and we need to get us some nourishment." Bolt sat down, relaxed his face, and took a deep breath. He realized how aggravated he was, and how it was affecting him. He could tell that Dodger really wanted to help, and he had no reason, nor time to be aggressive. He needed to get to Penny. "Okay," he resigned. "Good." said Dodger, sitting down. "There's a certain art to getting food around here. It doesn't just appear in your bowl, and you won't make it to Cali on an empty stomach. So we'll talk over lunch." Bolt nodded. "And you really shouldn't try using any of your powers here. This is one place where you don't want to attract attention to yourself, so just stick with me, and follow my lead." Bolt nodded. "Good, follow me." It wasn't necessarily that Dodger was worried about Bolt attracting unwanted attention, though that was a factor. Dodger just thought it would probably complicate their food gathering endeavors if he was going to try to superbark some vendor up a wall. Dodger doubled back and made towards a bench parallel to the busy street, Bolt following closely. He hoped for the sake of the operation that the truck hadn't left yet, so he could have plenty of time to give Bolt the rundown. He hopped up on the bench and sat, and after sniffing at the bench thoroughly, Bolt joined him. Dodger craned his neck to look for the meat truck, but didn't see it anywhere. This was good, as it meant that it probably hadn't left yet. He turned to Bolt, who was staring in the down the street in the opposite direction. "Alright, so there's a meat truck loading at a butcher shop about a quarter mile from here, and it'll probably be making a delivery at a grocery store northeast of here. At some point it's going to pass where we are, and when it does... you can play dead, right?" Bolt glared at him. "Of course, I CAN, but I don't..." "Good," said Dodger. "So I'll stop the truck when it passes, and the moment it stops you'll act like you got smacked, and while the driver's distracted, I'll make my way around back and grab what we came for. Alright?" Bolt wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue. Dodger was indigenous to the area, and it was best to just trust his judgment, at this point. Besides, he didn't seem like he would be deceptive. He seemed sincere. "Fair enough," Bolt resigned. This was a heist that was most effectively executed with at least four canines, but it could also be done with two, if you're extra careful. Dodger looked at Bolt with concern. He seemed really antsy, and Dodger could see anxiety and genuine distress in his brown eyes. A wasp had descended on them, and was circling Bolt's face, who didn't even seem to notice. He was lost in worry. He continued to stare down the street as the wasp departed. "Hey, man," Dodger nudged Bolt's shoulder with his paw. "Like I said, I hear a lot of things, and you really don't need to worry about Penny. She's fine, I promise you, and I have no doubt that you will have no trouble getting back to her." Bolt opened his mouth as if to ask how the hell Dodger knew this, but no words came. Instead Dodger saw his face relax slightly, and even though he was still visibly worried, he could see a bit of distress leave him. It was at this point that Dodger himself realized how unusually concerned he was for this dog. He didn't typically worry for anyone outside of the gang, so the level of empathy in his voice surprised even himself. Not that it was a big deal. Sometimes you just surprise yourself. "Thank you," was all Bolt said after a few seconds. Again, he could tell that Dodger was being sincere, and he really seemed like he wanted to help, even though it didn't change the fact that he was worried shitless for Penny. He tensed up momentarily when he felt the gentle touch of Dodger's paws on the back of his neck, but realized that he was unhooking the leash that he had been dragging around needlessly. Dodger craned his neck again, and he grinned when he could see the reefer in the lane closest to the park. Cakewalk. As it slowly inched through the traffic, he nudged Bolt again. "Ready?" Bolt didn't look at him. "As ever," he said, rather indifferently. Dodger nodded his head in the direction of the reefer. "That one, right there." Bolt turned his head to look at the truck, which was becoming almost parallel to the bench at this point. "Now!" signaled Dodger as it passed the bench. He jumped off onto the sidewalk, ran up beside the truck and broadsided the passenger door as hard as he thought he could without injuring himself. Almost instantly, the truck came to a halt, and he could see Bolt run in front of it as he shook his head out. Still a bit dazed, he ran around back, put his paws up on the bumper, and nosed the latch open. He muzzled the door upwards so he could stick his head in, and as he climbed through, he thrust his hind legs upward to open the door all the way. He could hear honking behind him as he put his front paws on the first stack of boxes he could get to. He tore the plastic film off with his teeth, and the smell of fresh pork seemed to explode from the package, smacking Dodger upside his head and instantly making his mouth water in anticipation. After slinging as many sausages as he could manage around his neck, he hopped down from the truck and ran up past the driver who was kneeling at Bolt's side, barking twice to signal that it was time to split. Bolt was sprinting down the sidewalk before the driver could even register what had happened. "Hey, what the... Hey, come back here you little fucker!!" the driver raged and ran after the dogs, but momentarily realized it was futile. They were too fast. He stopped in his tracks, and after throwing his fists at the air a couple of times he retreated to his van. They could still hear the cab drivers honking at the truck as they made their getaway. Bolt had caught up to him, and they were running almost neck and neck. They didn't bother to use the crosswalk, instead cutting through standstill traffic. Once on the other side, Dodger glanced over his shoulder and upon seeing that they were no longer being followed, he slowed to a brisk trot. As they made their way up the block, he noticed how intently they were being watched by passerby, and it occurred to him how a terrier with twenty or so sausages slung around his neck accompanied by a white shepherd with a jet black bolt painted on his side might attract some publicity. Bolt was a celebrity, after all. So he ducked into an alleyway adjacent to a nearby breakfast joint, and Bolt followed. The two canines came to a halt and stood there for a few seconds, looking at each other and trying to catch their breath. Dodger chuckled slightly as he was breathed heavily, visibly enamored by their success, as he always was after a successful heist. Dodger lowered his head and let the meat slide off his neck before he circled around twice and lay down on the concrete. Bolt followed, lying down on the opposite side of the franks, facing Dodger. They were close to the mouth of the alley, and he stared out into oncoming traffic as Dodger gnawed off a couple franks from the strand. He took a bite out of the first, and then another, and another. As he chewed, he looked up at Bolt, who was staring off into space, a pensive expression etched on his lips. "Hey, man, why don't you eat some sausage?" Dodger said, after swallowing. After a couple seconds Bolt obeyed, grabbing the other end of the strand and gnawing one off. He only had a bite before returning his gaze outwards. After a minute he turned to Dodger. "You said you could help me find Penny?" he inquired. Dodger was biting into his second sausage. He looked up again, swallowed, trying to remember what he had planned on doing. "Right..." he answered after a moment. Standing, he made his way towards a dumpster on the other side of the alley as Bolt watched him, following his movements. Dodger had intentionally picked this alleyway because the breakfast joint next to it had place mats with US maps on them to indicate nationwide locations of the franchise. He didn't know if Bolt could make any sense of it, but it was about the best he could do. He sprung into the blue dumpster, and he was met with a powerful stench of rancid meat and stale garbage, not that it bothered him too much. He didn't have to dig too far before he found a slightly soiled paper place mat. He gripped the corner of it in his front teeth and fought to keep his balance atop the garbage before springing back out again. Bolt watched with curiosity as Dodger resumed his original position, facing him. Dodger laid the mat out on the ground, and smoothed out the edges. He turned it so Bolt could look at it right side up and placed one of his grey-furred digits on the statue of liberty drawing. "Here's where you are now," Dodger explained. Bolt tilted his head slightly as he watched. "Okay." Dodger moved his paw over Hollywood, represented by a waffle wearing a pair of sunglasses. "And here's where your person is." Bolt looked at the map intently, muttering inaudibly and taking mental notes. "Alright, simple enough. This should help a bit." He examined it closely for a minute or so, continuing to mutter. "You keep it," said Dodger, before returning to work on his sausage. Bolt moved it to his side to pick up later, and laid down. Once again, his gaze returned to the still air, his eyes riddled with worry. He continued to pay no mind to the food set in front of him. As Dodger finished up his second sausage, he looked into Bolt's eyes. Again, he became aware of the unusual amount of sympathy he felt for Bolt. When he had assured him Penny's safety earlier, he could tell that Bolt believed him, to an extent, even if he hadn't gone into detail. Even so, Bolt's angst seemed to be etched into his mood, rational or not, and he was struggling visibly to let go of it, as much as he seemed to want to. It troubled Dodger to see Bolt so troubled. Quite a bit, actually. Dodger knew Penny was safe, or at least that she hadn't been kidnapped by some green-eyed maniac, and that Bolt's fear for her was grossly misinformed. He just wanted Bolt to understand that, but at the same time he was afraid that if he tried to explain that the world Bolt had lived in his whole life was fake, he would be understandably conflicted. He just wanted him to be consoled. "Hey, I understand that you're really worried about your person, but don't worry. I want you to know that the ahhh.... green-eyed guy doesn't have her. She's perfectly safe, I promise. It's really her that should be worried about you, to be honest," Dodger reassured. They looked at each other closely for a few seconds. The terrier had a very kindly, comforting and genuinely sympathetic tone to his voice. Bolt couldn't sense any facade or deception, something he had grown wary of throughout his years of dealing with cats. Bolt let out a sigh, and laid down again. "You know this for sure?" "Abso-tively." Dodger smiled hearteningly. Bolt took this smile to heart as he continued to watch Dodger. Finally, he exhaled deeply again, his gaze drifting to the side a little, and to Dodger's pleasant surprise he even chuckled a little. He wasn't relieved of his stress by any stretch, but Dodger could see that it had dulled immensely, and that Bolt willingly believed him. "Thank you," he said. "Yeah." "No, really, thank you." Dodger smiled broadly. "Hey, no problem, man." He was really glad to see that Bolt was at least a little more collected. He watched him finally take another bite of sausage. "So, ahh, what sort of music do you like?" Dodger very rarely made small talk, and frankly he felt a bit silly. "I don't really know, actually." Bolt chuckled a little. "I hardly get the chance to listen to music, actually. All I've really heard is the stuff that Penny sometimes brings. I don't know anything about it besides the name."

"What are some of the names you remember?" "Uhhm..." Bolt looked down at his paws as he wracked his brain. "I can remember her bringing quite a bit of 'Pink Floyd,' ahh... 'Rush,' and... 'Judas Price...' 'Billy Joel...'" Dodger's ears perked up. He liked every one of the others that Bolt listed, except for 'Judas Price.' Judas PRIEST was alright, Dodger thought humorously. But his heart had leapt at the last name. "Man, Billy Joel's my favorite!" "Really? He IS pretty great, from what I've heard." "Absolutely." "But, yeah, she's brought me quite a bit of music, but those are the first few I can remember. But, like I said, I hardly ever get to listen to it." "Why not?" "It's just that..." Bolt gave an exasperated sigh. "It's always about Penny. I love her so much, but she's always in danger, for whatever reason, and if it weren't for me, she would be dead..." Bolt wasn't bragging. Saying it actually pained him, visibly. "It's always something... And it's almost always that degenerate, green-eyed psychotic creep. I can never rest as long as he is at large, because if I do he will continue to pursue Penny until he gets his hands on her. And his cats? Ugh... Even if I get to sleep, those wicked, sniggering pests haunt me in my dreams. Which is why he must fall. We can't... and won't rest as long as he continues to watch us." Dodger could see genuine weariness in his eyes as he said all this. Real weariness, because of a fake reality, necessitated only by the checks paid to the producers by the networks for superior ratings. It was sickening to think about. "Yeah, I know what you mean." Of course, the parties that seemed to have interest in causing him and his gang trouble were much more real, and not nearly as severe, usually, as it would seem. Sykes, being the genuinely ruthless shark that he was, was an exception, of course. But even with him at the bottom of the East River, Fagin tended to run up sizable tabs with various other, if not arguably more merciful benefactors. "The way of life around here revolves largely around debt. It's an ever expanding web, if you will, and if you don't want to be a fly, you have to be assertive. Our person, that is my gang's person, is really quite poor. He relies, like a lot of guys around here, on borrowed money. And, literally speaking, if we don't bring in the goods, we get it hard sometimes. The worst case was this guy Sykes. Man, did he come down hard. He's at the bottom of the East River now because he was trying to run us down on the subway tracks with his sedan." "Yikes. Got hit by a train?" "Yep. Car blew up and he went down with it." "Oooh..." Bolt winced. "Yeah. And I'm sure there's a lot of people who got a lucky break. The guy was a ruthless psycho with an iron fist." "Jeez, I couldn't imagine the green-eyed man ever doing anything that stupid." "Yeah, his bank account kind of had a direct line to his magnum. Reason was never really part of the equation." Dodger chuckled humorlessly. The two canines lay there in the alley for a while after they were done eating. Dodger would save the rest of the sausages for his "gang" back home. As they talked, Bolt and Dodger quickly became more comfortable in each other's presence, conversation topics seeming to surface more naturally and freely. Bolt told Dodger all about Penny. About how much she loved him, and how much he mutually loved her. About how much he wished he could spend more time with her. About her father, and Dr. Calico's interest in his studies. Dodger would give an acknowledging nod as he listened, trying to see past the frills and the details of Bolt's falsified reality and focus more on the sentiment and intention behind all of it. At times, their conversation would devolve into lighter and more trivial topics, such as grooming. "I typically get a bath about once a month," related Bolt. He sat in a more relaxed position, halfway on his side and halfway on his belly, with his hind legs stretched out in front of him rather than on either side of him with his paws planted on the ground. "It's always the same lady, the same one that grooms me every morning. I never learned her name, but she seems nice enough." "Ugh, I'm glad I've only had to put up with a bath a couple times in my life, and I hope I never have the displeasure to experience it again," Dodger griped, his ears flattened. He too had found a comfy place up against the dumpster. "You know, I never understood most dogs' problem with baths. Really, I look forward to it because I like feeling clean. It really makes my fur a lot lighter, and I can feel the air a lot better. I don't like the soap smell too much, but it's not terrible." Soap. That crap that humans put on themselves to smell better. Well, it must smell good to them, because there was a general consensus amongst dogs that it's among the funkiest of smells. "Well, the smell alone makes me want to just jump in a garbage heap, but the process itself seals it for me. Nope, I like my tongue baths just fine." He picked up one of his grey paws and licked it tenderly as if to demonstrate his words, and much like an inexplicably contagious yawn, Bolt instinctively did the same. Dodger sat back and exhaled deeply as they looked at each other. They shared a moment of intimate acknowledgement, much like good friends do when they are at a loss for conversation. A moment where you can sit and just "be" with each other peacefully. It's a strange force of nature, and it's a rare occurrence, but it's special. "Puppies," Dodger said plainly after a few moments, seemingly at a junction for new conversation. Bolt simply laughed at the sudden digression in topic.

Dodger told Bolt about his "gang," and about his own person, Fagin, as well as the nature of the never-ending game that was nomadic survival, and the hand of cards from which they played it. He loved Fagin dearly, and Fagin had always been good to them and was always there for them, and Dodger didn't think that would ever change. However, he sometimes really wished that Fagin could be a little more conservative as a debtor. Dodger was used to being in time-sensitive situations in which he and the gang would have to do some things that weren't necessarily easy, enjoyable, or even moral in some cases. He and his gang had to do what they had to do to eat and live, but often times Fagin would impulsively use money that they had collected exclusively for the purpose of paying a debt to buy silly things, such as vintage collectible bobble heads that would almost definitely be stored in a dusty box for years to come. Dodger recalled to Bolt the day Fagin brought home an entire box full that he had bought for more than $500, which for them, obviously, was a right pretty penny. He had never bit Fagin before, and he knew he never, ever would, but if there was ever one day where he came close, that was it. Needless to say, he was righteously pissed off. Likewise, Fagin would also sometimes take out a special loan for equally ridiculous things. Tito and Rita shared in Dodger's frustration as well. It was as if Fagin sometimes failed to remember where the money came from to begin with. Dodger, not without a bit of embarrassment, told Bolt about the one time he had been apprehended by the dog catcher, an event that he never enjoyed recounting. "It was just me and Francis, and we had been out for hours trying to find items of value, and we had come up empty." "Where were the others?" By this point Bolt knew about all the dogs in Dodger's gang. "Tito and Einstein were hunting a few blocks away, and Rita went back early because she didn't feel great." "Oh." "But we were on our way back around ten, and we were feeling a bit dejected, you know. The past couple days had been rough, and that wouldn't have been the first night we came back empty-pawed. At the time Fagin was in debt to this guy Benson, and... I think it was two days after that would have been the deadline." "Was he terribly aggressive?" "Meh, not too bad. He required collateral, so he would just keep your stuff if you didn't give him his cash with interest. I can't remember what Fagin had given him, though. Anyway, we were on our way back, and we happened to be strolling past the record store right around the time he would normally be locking up. Only this time, as we approached, we saw him just walk out the door and get in his car. He didn't even lock the door or anything." "Oh, wow." "Yeah. We were amazed. Both at his carelessness and our luck. So obviously, we were gonna take this opportunity. So we walked in, simple as that, grabbed a couple bags and started puttin' 'em in. Francis filled his bag pretty quick and decided to split, but it was taking me longer to fill mine, just because I'm not as big, you know? He could have fit the whole store in his mouth if he wanted to." "Haha, alright." "Well, what we didn't know was that the owner had somehow remembered to set the silent alarm, and we had set it off when we opened the door." "Oh, man." "I was grabbing some of the more valuable records from behind the counter, and two dog catchers had come in all quiet like, because when we tripped the alarm, the police probably looked at the security cameras so they knew to send animal control. I didn't notice them come in because I was distracted by a first edition copy of "Toys in the Attic" by Aerosmith that was going for $60. Well..." Dodger hesitated. He really hated to testify to being captured so easily. "I turned around and I saw that one of them was coming up from behind, and he had me cornered behind the counter, so I jumped over, where the other one was waiting. So I juked right and made towards the door, but the first one lashed out from behind the counter with his noose as I passed." "Man. So did they take you away?" "Yeah, they took me to the pound. I stayed there a couple days, and Fagin basically had to come and re-adopt me, since I don't wear a collar, and the adoption fee was like $200, which I'm sure he and the gang worked night and day for that two days to come up with. He never did get his collateral back, though. I never doubted for a second that he'd get me out." "That's really nice. And at least you only had to spend a couple days there." "Yeah, I expected more." Dodger and Bolt had been sitting in the alley for about a good three hours, sharing countless stories, experiences, and ideas. Dodger would tell Bolt about one of his nomadic experiences, and Bolt would respond with a bombardment of questions. Having lived a sheltered life, often times he had trouble understanding Dodger's answers for what they were, but he grasped new concepts admirably. At this point, they had left behind any discomfort or difficulty making conversation with one another. Even so, they naturally grew physically restless and uncomfortable from sitting on the hard concrete for so long. They would take turns standing or pacing, occasionally, and both of them were moving around quite a bit. One would pick a place to lounge, and a couple minutes later would stand up, pace a bit, and pick another place. Also, at this point the weather had progressed. Aside from the sun not being directly overhead anymore, leaving the two dogs in the darker shadows of the buildings, it had also cooled off considerably, and the breeze had picked up as well. Not that it was unwelcome, though. Dodger had been enjoying the balmy weather for a good while, but he had become indifferent, maybe even a little warm for his comfort from sitting in it for more than a couple hours. So in this sense, the cooler air and change in environment was quite welcome. Occasionally the cool breeze gave way to even more potent gusts, and now Dodger could see that a gray blanket was beginning to inch its way across the sky. It was rather pleasant, and Bolt was very visibly enjoying it. The breeze would pick up, and Bolt would lift his nose up high to catch as much as possible. His snow white fur rippled as he closed his eyes and grinned widely, his usually stern expression replaced by one of utter bliss. As Dodger watched him, he was suddenly swept off his feet without warning by a hellfire swarm of emotion. He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as a hurricane of mixed feelings began to rage spontaneously in the pit of his stomach. First off, Bolt was impeccable. Sublime. Perfect. He hadn't completely recognized the notion in his mind before now, but now there was no denying or ignoring it. Snow white pelt... magnificent tail... expressionate ears... paws, everything. What really made his stomach churn, however, was being able to see Bolt in such a state of pleasure, for one, but also the sickening realization that this was probably the first time Bolt had genuinely experienced the savory scent of the cool, humid breeze before a storm that he could remember. Dodger gritted his teeth even harder still at the thought. In that moment he knew he was having the most intensely bittersweet feeling he had ever known in his life before. He wanted to cry. Badly. The fact that this was a completely alien feeling to Dodger didn't serve to make it any easier, either. He just... felt like he wasn't himself, at all. His stomach jumped again when he heard a voice. "You okay? You don't look so great." Dodger forced his eyes open to make eye contact with Bolt. "Yeah, fine," he lied through gritted teeth. He watched Bolt take another deep whiff, and exhale blissfully. "Man, that's really nice, isn't it?" elated Bolt. "Yeah." Now Dodger realized what had to be done. He now knew that he couldn't spend another second in Bolt's presence while continuing to humor him in his complete ignorance. He had been hard-pressed to the end of his wit to be honest with this dog since they had started talking, for in Dodger's mind, if there was anyone who deserved the truth, it was Bolt. And Dodger could give it to him, so it would simply be deceitful to try and withhold it any longer. Dodger had reached his breaking point. "Listen, man...." Dodger hesitated, and took a very deep breath before continuing. "I really like you." He could feel his ears heat up uncomfortably as he blushed under his fur. The statement was so outrageously forward and out of place, and now he felt like a complete ass. Had he really just said that? At first Bolt looked a bit taken aback by the forwardness of this sudden disclosure, but not out of adversity, and his expression progressed into a more pensive state after a moment. A few moments passed, he drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and looked down at the ground, obviously feeling a bit ridiculous, himself. "I like you, too," He said quietly, still looking at the ground. While the atmosphere between them still had Dodger feeling gawky and stupid, he was more than a little relieved to hear Bolt's consensus, rather than an awkward silence or an opposition, neither of which Dodger knew whether he should have expected to begin with. He could have said something like Umm, alright... but he hadn't, which was a relief. It was at least a few moments before Dodger spoke again. "Which is why..." Hesitation. "Which is why I really feel like I gotta be honest with you." It was the truth. Bolt had a puzzled expression on his muzzle. "Alright..." He waited for Dodger to continue, at a loss for any idea of what he could possibly say next. Once again, Dodger let out a deep sigh before continuing.

"Remember how I said I knew for a fact that your person was fine?" "Yeah." "Well... I meant it." "I never doubted that... But how do you know?" "Ahh... Well..." Sigh. "There, uh... there is no green-eyed man." Bolt's muzzle betrayed complete bewilderment. He simply sat there for almost a good twenty seconds, stone-faced, studying Dodger. "How do you mean?" Bolt said. There was no turning back now. "Uh... I don't suppose you know what television is?" "Yes..." said Bolt, still utterly bewildered. "The green-eyed man is a TV character." Long pause. "How do you mean?" "I mean he's an actor. A normal guy playing a character on a TV show." Again, a pause. Bolt was responding exactly how Dodger expected he would, and Dodger suspected the best way to go about explaining it was exactly the way he was doing it. Very small fragments of information at a time while letting Bolt ask the questions and control the flow of the conversation. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Bolt said, shaking his head. "What show?" Pause, then Dodger pulled the trigger. "The name of the show is Bolt." Very long pause. Bolt was looking at Dodger like he would if Dodger had three heads. "What??" he said, now with a hint of aggravation at the absurdity. Dodger fired a second time. "It's about a dog. A white dog whose person's father had been abducted by a man with a green eye for his studies, so this dog, who had been given special powers, was left to protect his beloved person, Penny from the evil man's forces." Dodger objectively cast his gaze on Bolt as he said this. Bolt sat frozen and slack-jawed, his mind teeming to its limit with conflicting strains of information. After a long silence and a rather intense skirmish inside his skull, he shook his head. "That's impossible," he insisted. "Think about it, Bolt. Since you left Hollywood, haven't you been having some trouble with your powers?" "Yeah, but that's because of the styrofoam!" Bolt shot back, the hairs on his neck bristling slightly. Dodger had to wrack his brain in order to comprehend the context of what Bolt was saying. What are these things? They've weakened me! Bolt had said a few hours earlier, Dodger recalled. "No. Styrofoam is a material humans use to cushion breakables while they're being shipped." "No. From what I can gather, it was engineered exclusively for the purpose of nullifying my powers." Bolt said matter-of-factly. "Bolt." Dodger tried to put on a re-assuring smile. "It's a good thing. It just means that you have nothing to worry about. Yeah?" Bolt looked away, shaking his head. "It's preposterous," He said. He tried to sound as plain and stubborn as he could, but he couldn't say that he felt 100% the same way. Really, he was quite conflicted. Not that this was a new sensation, by any stretch. He had been fighting to protect Penny for nearly five years, and now Dodger was trying to tell him that it was all put on? Of course he wasn't exactly going to accept that with open arms, but again, Dodger was right in that if he was telling the truth, even if it meant that his whole life was a lie, in the end it would be good news, and he wanted to trust Dodger. He didn't feel like Dodger had any reason to deceive him. Bolt didn't know what he wanted at all anymore. He had been harboring suspicions and unanswered questions since the whole charade began, but the idea that he had been lied to by Penny for five years was as simply as Bolt had put it. Preposterous. But then again, was it really? Yes... Of course it was... Dodger looked at Bolt with worry, as he had been just staring at the ground and mouthing to himself, looking as if he would blow a gasket at any second due to the volume of the relentless chain of thought that was barely managing to scrape and squeeze its way through the channels in his mind. "Bolt?" No answer. Finally Bolt looked up towards the street, where the traffic had thickened significantly. Suddenly Bolt's eyes squinted intensely in one particular direction. "Ahh... Bolt?" No answer. Suddenly Bolt's eyes grew wide, and he sprung abruptly to his feet in one swift motion. "PENNY!" he exclaimed towards the traffic. "Wha..?" Dodger stood and spun around sharply to see what Bolt could possibly be yelling at. Nothing out of the ordinary that he could tell, but before he could turn back around, a white blur made its way into his field of vision, darting towards the street. "Wha... Hey, where do you think you're going??" Dodger called after Bolt, unsure and very fearful as to what he would do next. He grew even more anxious as he watched Bolt jump onto the hood of a taxi, scurry across the roof, and leap across to the next vehicle. He made his way across three or four cars, then Dodger watched in horror as Bolt flung himself, seemingly deliberately, headlong into the grill of a semi, his head landing flush to the chrome with a bone-chilling clank followed by a sharp and painful yelp. Dodger thought his heart would leap through his throat as Bolt slid down the front of the truck and disappeared behind the taxi in front. "Bolt?!?" he called, panicked. No answer. What had just happened? He felt the terrible twang in his chest intensify as he hastily made his way to the site of the collision, terrified of what he might find. His heart did a backflip once he was able to see the seemingly lifeless white heap that was Bolt, who lay completely still. Dodger's eyes urgently probed for any sign of life about him, and upon being able to discern the gentle heaving of Bolt's body, Dodger felt as if a ten thousand pound weight had been lifted, and he was finally able to take in a long, quivering breath as he moved in closer. Now he looked to the vehicle that Bolt had seemingly wished harm upon, and he saw that the truck was hauling a port-o-john. Not that Dodger knew or cared what kind of sense this made at the time. As he approached Bolt, people began to get out of their cars in order to tend to what had happened, prompting the less perturbed drivers to let their frustration at being gridlocked be known. The first thing that instinctively occurred to Dodger when he reached Bolt, who was lying on his side, was to sniff around his face. Between his eyes, his muzzle, around his whiskers, his cheek, the top of his head, behind his ears, and finally the nape of his neck. Nothing abnormal that Dodger could discern, not that he knew what he was expecting. He ineffectively nudged between Bolt's shoulder blades with his nose, causing Bolt's limp body heaving a mere inch forward before immediately resuming its original position. He was definitely out cold, but he seemed to be okay, otherwise. Dodger sniffed again before seeing a hand reach for Bolt's collar. Dodger reacted curtly and without hesitation, gnashing his teeth towards the intruder before letting loose with the most dissuasive growl he could muster, hunkering down with his ears back and baring his teeth, effectively scaring the living hell out of the hand's owner. The man jumped back with commendable force, cowering away from the stalwart canine before stumbling through the open door of his own car. It seemed as though Dodger's display had also effectively dispelled most of the other onlookers who had left their cars and congregated around the scene of the accident. Dodger watched the driver of the truck slink past before ascending into the cab as he grasped Bolt's collar in his teeth, lugging him out of the street.

Dodger slowly crept backwards across the sidewalk, the limp white dog slithering in his wake. Dodger tried his best to move gracefully as to avoid causing more bodily harm to Bolt. Once they made it back to the alley, Dodger began to ponder his options. He let Bolt slide loose from his jaw, and he wrinkled his nose as he snorted his displeasure, as he had caught a sizable whiff of flea dip as he was holding Bolt by his collar. One or more of the bystanders had more than likely called 911, so whatever Dodger was going to do, he needed to do it with a sense of urgency. Dodger's attention turned to the weather and sky, and to his dismay, he once again recognized the cool, humid breeze and the blanketing grey shroud before a storm, necessitating urgency further still. He couldn't possibly, not in good conscience, leave Bolt on the street in the rain. Not in a million years. It really seemed that the only option at this point was to take Bolt into the safety of Dodger's own home. Not that this reality bothered him terribly. What bothered him was the trip ahead of them that he anticipated

Dodger looked at Bolt, then at the street, at the sky, and back at Bolt again, in whom the only sign of life was the subtle rise and fall of his chest, and the occasional twitch of an ear or paw. How in the HELL was Dodger going to get him home? Dodger turned around and stared into the wall as he fumbled for an answer, and as the day continued to become darker and greyer.. He leaned forward and pressed his cranium against the cool brick, desperately trying to develop a solution. He couldn't DRAG Bolt all the way to the docks, at least not if he wanted Bolt to wake up still having fur. There was simply not much he could do that wouldn't look suspiciously resourceful for a dog, and subsequently attract attention that could possibly land him in trouble now or possibly in the future. "Gaaahh..." Dodger growled, shaking his head with aggravation and sickening desperation. He turned around and lay down on the pavement, resting his head on his paw and sighing gruffly through his nose. Think, Think, Think, he told himself, and was briefly reminded of Winnie the Pooh, with a feeling that straddled awkwardly between humor and stress. His nose wrinkled when he saw a rat scurry out from behind one dumpster to munch on the forgotten strand of sausages, and without getting up, he gave it a sharp kick with one of his hind legs. "Get outta here," he snarled as the rat scampered away. He hadn't expected to be out for so long, and his friends were undoubtedly waiting for their food, still. He wasn't keen on bringing home meat that had sat on the ground, graciously welcoming ants, rats and flies for the past three hours, but it would have to do. He was picking up another scent, as well. As he lifted his nose and sniffed, his head swiveled and his eyes once again found Bolt, who, Dodger noticed with slight alarm, had a bright scarlet trickle down his right cheek, welling from a shallow gash above his right eye. Not a significant laceration, but unsettling all the same. Dodger didn't hesitate. He inched in right up next to Bolt and lay down beside him, reaching up to his own throat with one of his paws and slipping it underneath the loose overhand knot that fastened his red bandana, gently working the knot out and taking the scarf off. Folding it into a strip on the ground with his paw, he took it in his teeth, inched forward and laid it gently across Bolt's forehead before raising his paw to tenderly dab at the wound with it. He cringed inside at the thought of any of his gang seeing him in such a state of worry, for as far as they were concerned, worry was simply not an integral part of Dodger. This was a side of him that was rarely seen, even by his comrades. Care-free Dodger. Why should I worry? was his famed signature. After nursing the injury some more, Dodger took his paws, lifted Bolt's head, wound the folded bandana beneath his jaw, reached around his head to his left cheek and tied the ends off snugly, which proved to be a chore for his semi-opposable digits. But something about having his arms around Bolt shot his will to pieces, and something in his mind was abruptly dislodged. Now, instead of retracting his arms, he collapsed on his side beside Bolt with his arms still around Bolt's neck, his will failing and the sickening feeling of yearning knotting his stomach once again as he pulled Bolt in close, hugged tightly, and pressed his forehead against Bolt's now bandage-wrapped cheek, shutting his lids. Not that Dodger would choose to do this if Bolt were awake, his will withstanding, but in that moment, he earnestly hoped that somehow Bolt could feel him, that Bolt could somehow share the sentiment. He's beautiful... were the only words Dodger could manage to put together in his mind during that time. Dodger squeezed tighter as he gritted his teeth once again, never wanting to let go. He would have been content to hold the injured pup until death, but the urgency of his situation called him to forcefully pry himself free. Once separate from Bolt, he laid his head on his paws, a ragged sigh escaping from his nose, and even though he was physically disjoined, his mind still wrapped tightly around Bolt, failing to part. What finally and successfully, if harshly and painfully, nonetheless, brought him back to reality was a new smell, reaching out for Dodger's instinctive attention. Again, he lifted his muzzle, also becoming aware that his eyes were still closed, and welcomed the newly christened scent. He walked his front paws out and around to face the street as he sniffed. Fresh Fish, he recollected from his broad olfactory vocabulary as he finally opened his eyes. The source was very close. Within the block, as a matter of fact. He continued to take in the smell as he stood up, once again making his way to the mouth of the alley in order to gain view of the entire street. The scent pulled his nose to the right, and his eyes landed on a small container truck, much like the one he had lifted earlier with the combined efforts of Bolt, except this one had no reefer attached. This one read "Bob Herndon Fishing Co." on the side. It was parked. The sign above the black awning parallel to the truck read "Bonefish Grill."

Unbelievable. Just... unbelievable. Dodger couldn't help his disbelief. He was both elated and incredibly astounded by the bounty of his renewed luck. Bob Herndon. This name in particular tweaked his mind because, Dodger couldn't help but grin at the amazing convenience as he thought, Bob Herndon Fishing's HQ was less than a quarter-mile from Fagin's house-boat. Now, all he had to do was.... His heart sank. Before they could hitch a ride on the truck, obviously they had to GET to the truck. Dodger would have to get Bolt half a block down, across the street, and half a block back to the truck. The truck was without a doubt Dodger's best bet, but even so, it looked almost impossibly far away, when he had an unconscious shepherd to lug with him. Serving to make it more disconcerting was hearing the first distant low rumble, a promise to send in more of the same.

Dodger could almost feel the gaze of the surrounding motorists burning holes in his fur as he trudged backwards through the crosswalk, with the white heap following closely behind. Dodger had found a discarded cardboard box in the alley that once belonged to an automatic coffee pot, which he had broken down and unfolded for a makeshift sled, of sorts, so that he could transport Bolt without scraping his fur. But again, as far as these motorists were concerned, this level of ingenuity simply didn't belong with dogs, and it had them popping out of their windows to sneak a peek at the terrier, hauling the unconscious white shepherd with the red scarf backwards across the street on a cardboard sled. Dodger always tried his best to keep a low profile, and this was pretty high up there in terms of head-turning, so he felt much better once he was on his way back down the other side of the street, out of the traffic pattern. Once on the sidewalk, he had to stop about halfway to the truck, as his jaw muscles were hurting him pretty badly after hauling such a heavy load for as far as he had. As he took a few moments to shake his head out, roll his jaw a bit, work out the knots in his muscles a little, he could feel a cool drop of liquid land on the end of his nose. He took the edge of the cardboard in his teeth once again and resumed his trek as the pavement continued to become more and more speckled and the soft din of raindrops impacting the ground began to become audible. Once he reached the vehicle, he was pleased to see that there was only one worker carting fish into the restaurant. Dodger took the opportunity after the young man had taken a cartload of boxes down the ramp and through the door to carefully make his way up the length of the truck and around back to tow Bolt up the ramp, escaping from the increasing onslaught of rain outside to the shelter of the container.

Once inside, Dodger urgently ducked behind a wrapped palette containing neatly stacked Styrofoam coolers, taking Bolt with him. They were in the right corner closest to the cab, with the full palette blocking them from view. Judging by the fact that the palette was neatly wrapped, he was pretty sure, and hoped desperately that the driver wouldn't look behind it. He backed into the tight space until his tail brushed against the wall, before grabbing Bolt and pulling him in further behind the stack and lying down. It wasn't long before Dodger heard the rattling of the loading ramp again, followed by the loud clunk of footsteps on the metal floor and the low rumble of the handcart trailing them. Dodger's heart raced. He had no idea what other options he could possibly have if they were found out. He could barely see around the corner of the stack he was behind, and his heart calmed a little when he heard the footsteps cease before hearing the handcart rattle as its handler lowered it to the ground, making a distinct sssslip as the flat piece on the bottom powered its way under a small stack of cardboard boxes. He could see the stack tip backwards, before promptly retreating, disappearing from view, and rattling the ramp again as it exited. Dodger exhaled deeply as the sound of the cart faded. About a minute later, he heard the ramp rattle once more, but this time, to his great relief, it made a sound that clearly indicated that it was being returned to its preset position, rather than being trod on. Finally came the overhead rattle of the door being lowered into place, followed by the clack of the latch.

Being able to finally relax was a wonderful feeling. For the first time since a half hour before, give or take, Dodger wasn't either frantically trying to devise an urgently needed solution or trudging backwards through the unwelcome and unwelcoming gaze of countless motorists while bearing a painful amount of weight in his jaws. MAN it felt good, even if he wasn't totally in the clear now. He also noticed that his eyelids had become heavy, and during the hours he had spent in the alley with Bolt, he had become strangely exhausted. He at least now had the luxury of being able to take in his new surroundings without hindrance. First off, it was raining. However, contrary to the conditions outside, where the sound of the rain was a gentle, continual rumble, inside the container every single drop that fell on the fiberglass roof was loudly distinctive, creating a noisy, ear-numbing roar, easily mistakable for hail. It was almost reminiscent of the sound that dog food makes when it hits the bottom of the dish, only much louder and more drawn out. At first, it was a little annoying, as Dodger could tell that by now the rain was probably coming down in sheets, but once he grew accustomed to the noise, it became rather soothing. The fiberglass roof was opaque, but it allowed for a good amount of light to pass through, relative to the amount of light outside. Judging by the murky blue glow that blanketed the interior, Dodger guessed that it was around 6:30. Of course, the melancholy near-darkness was also partially due to the dark cloud cover, so it was hard to tell. In the shadow of the palette that Dodger and Bolt were behind, one could only make out distinct features from a couple feet away. Bolt's white pelt held a luminescence that boldly stood out against the gloom, the only imperfections being the bolt on his side, his collar, and the scarf around his head, all of which were only nebulous shadows from where Dodger sat. Only when Dodger rested his jaw on the floor with his nose a mere inch from Bolt's could he make out his facial features. Bolt's eyes were loosely shut, and the gentle heaving of his midsection was rhythmic and natural. One could easily think that he was only napping. From this position, Dodger could feel Bolt's breath on his nose, which felt chilly due to its moist nature. It was absolutely wonderful. Dodger fixed his own breathing so that he could inhale at the same time that Bolt exhaled. Being able to breathe the same air as Bolt made his stomach knot up once again, a feeling that he was getting to know more and more. Dodger allowed his eyes to gently close, savoring every breath that the wonderful canine in front of him had to give. Pretty soon, Dodger began to slowly relax every muscle in his body, beginning with his jaw, moving down to his hind legs, and finally his core and his arms. The only physical effort he was exerting was breath, and before long, Dodger's own breath fell into a groove, and became comfortably and perfectly opposite Bolt's, as naturally as came the act of breathing, itself. The only sound that met his ears was the hypnotic, relentless and monotonous roar of sheets upon sheets of rain bearing down above. Slowly, his mind began to calm even further, slipping further towards a euphoric sense of numbness and silence. His world began to soothingly rock to and fro, slipping further away with every sway as Bolt's soft breath continued to course through his lungs, like a sleeping gas. Delightful sleeping gas, every breath of which sucking away more of his cares, pain, and consciousness, like fallen leaves littering a narrow, modest dirt road in the country on a blustery autumn day.