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“Did you take Nick? Because I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass if you took Nick.”

I blast into a small clearing. A circle of small spruce trees stands as sentinels. Snow begins to fall from the sky. I stop, standing there alone in the middle of the circle as the snow comes down, faster and faster.

“You’re trying to get me lost,” I say. My fists clench. I release them. I won’t show him I’m afraid. I won’t be afraid. “You’re really annoying me!”

There is no answer.

“I am not imagining you!”

Still no answer.

My head pounds. There is a name for this, this fear of a voice. But I can’t remember it. Damn.

Phobophobia, fear of phobias.

Phonophobia, fear of noises or voices.

Photoaugliaphobia, fear of glaring lights.

Photophobia, fear of light.

That’s the one. And what’s the next fear, alphabetically?

Phronemophobia, fear of thinking
.

I am not afraid of thinking. Thinking calms me down. I search the periphery of the trees, looking, looking.

Where am I?

I am in the woods.

Where is Wick?

I have no idea. Not taken. He can’t be taken.

Where is the voice?

I check my pocket for my cell phone. It’s still in my cross-country bag. I shake my head because, really, how could I be doing this? I am probably following the voice of some psycho pixie serial killer into dark woods worthy of a Stephen King novel, and I [_did not bring my _]cell phone.

A noise escapes my lips-guttural, panicked, pathetic. I swallow, straighten. That is not how I am going to be. I am not going to die a wimp while waiting for the killer to get me.

The snow plasters itself to the spruce trees. It touches my hair, coats my jacket and my pants, presses itself into my sneakers. It comes down so quickly it’s already covering the ground, which means there will be footprints to follow or for someone else to follow.

“Zara,” the voice comes again. “Come to me.”

I shake my head. I’ve already been totally irrational. I’m not going to make it worse. “No.”

I brush the snow off my face.

“This way.”

I cover my ears and refuse to move.

“I’m lost. You made me lost,” I say, my voice weak, “and that is a super jerky thing to do.”

Then I hear it: amused laughter, and beneath that laughter something else, the howl.

Of a wolf?

It is a dog. It has to be a dog because I cannot handle a wolf right now.

I listen again. Maybe those old books I read back in fourth grade are right. Where German shepherds and Saint Bernards always rescued people in dire circumstances. Maybe a nice doggie has come to rescue me from whoever or whatever is in the woods. Maybe he’ll even have a barrel of beer under his neck. I don’t care. I’ll even take a werewolf right now. I’ll take anything.

Hope is a crazy thing. It will make you believe.

I rush toward the dog’s howling noise, searching for some friendly fur, maybe some drooling jowls. The howl seems closer, coming from behind me. I plow toward it, ignoring the snow and how it covers the ground, hiding the tree roots and rocks, making every footfall a danger.

Stopping, I suck in my breath. I have no idea where I am. My head is spinning from my minor concussion.

Breathe in, Zara.

Breathe out, Zara.

List the phobias.

I can’t, I can’t think of any.

Breathe in.

Mrs. Nix!

She said to put your coat on inside out to avoid getting lost. Sure, she’s a flake and it’s a stupid superstition, but I am willing to do it. Right now, I am willing to do anything.

I yank off my jacket and turn it inside out. Then I pull off ray sweatshirt and flip it around too. The arms feel all weird and bunched up.

“Can’t make it worse,” I mutter to the trees and start running again.

I’m not sure how long I run through the woods. I run blind, bumping past trees, hair snagging on low branches, feet somehow managing to keep me upright, my headache throbbing against my skin.

I can hear the dog.

I follow it, getting closer and closer, until bang-just like that-I’ve escaped the woods. I’m out on my own front lawn.

I pump my fist in the air. I’d kiss the ground if it wasn’t so damn snowy. I did it. I did it. I did it!

Yay for me!

Yay for dogs!

I do a little victory dance worthy of any
NFL
running back. Uh-huh.

Then I look around. The front porch light is still on. Grandma Betty’s truck is still missing and the
MINI
is still parked in the driveway covered in snow. No footprints disturb anything.

Heart sinking, I swallow and glance behind me for signs of the man who belongs to the voice that knew my name.

Just woods.

“Nick?”

His name echoes out into the snow-filled air like a worried question. I trudge through the snow, one step, another. My running shoes have soaked through. I didn’t notice until now. I shove my worries about frozen toes out of my mind. Why isn’t Nick back yet?

“Mick?”

I sense something to my right, and turn, fists up, ready to kick, to punch, to pummel, to run. But it’s not the psycho guy. There, coming from behind Nick’s
MINI
, is the largest freaking dog I have ever seen. It’s leaner than a Saint Bernard, but taller and more muscled. Its brown fur looks like a wolfs, but wolves aren’t that big. Are they? No. They are not.

Maybe tills is the dog who led me home, my rescue dog.

I reach out my hand and it turns to look at me head on. Its eyes are beautiful, shining deep and dark from its snow-plastered fur.

“Doggy?” I say. “Here, sweetie. Do you know where Nick is?”

That’s when I see it, there in its shoulder: an arrow, lodged and stuck. Blood has seeped out and dripped down the dog’s fur, clotting a bit where the arrow entered. Who the hell would shoot a dog with an arrow? Rage sweeps through me and I grit my teeth, trying to shove it down and away. Then the dog whimpers and all that rage turns into something else.

“Oh, honey,” I say and rush toward him, not thinking about how big he is or that he is probably a wolf. I flop to my knees in the snow in front of him.

“Does it hurt?”

The dog/wolf sniffs my hand. I scratch his muzzle and peer into his eyes. I am totally in love with this doggy. He does the dog equivalent of a shrug with his front shoulders, but the pain of the arrow must be too great because then he lets out a long, hard groan. The poor tiling.

My cold fingers stroke beneath his chin. He’s warm under there.

“We have to get you out of the cold,” I say, standing up and hitting my leg, hoping he’ll understand. “Come.”

I start walking slowly toward the house, checking over my shoulder to see if the dog/wolf has taken some obedience classes somewhere and is following me. It could happen. Right?

I hit my chest and say it again, “Come.”

With a strong, graceful swoop of his head he stares up at me. His eyes meet my eyes. I am not sure what I see there. Something feral? Something strong? Something very intelligent? Oh God…

“I just want to take care of you,” I say softly. I shelter my fingers inside my sleeves. The cold and the snow has numbed them. “Please, come with me in the house. I’ll take out your arrow. Get you warm. Please. Let me save you.”

My eyes take in the dog, then stray to look at the rapidly falling snow, and Nick’s car. My voice catches in my throat. Again.

“And then I can call my gram, and go out again and look for Nick, the guy who owns the
MINI
,” I explain.

The dog cocks his head when I say Nick’s name.

Hope foolishly crashes into my heart. “Did you see him? Did you see Nick?”

The dog doesn’t go all Lassie, but his tail moves weakly, almost like he is trying to wag it but can’t quite commit. Of course, the dog doesn’t answer. I am really losing it. It’s like I do believe in weres and pixies. It’s like something deep inside of me, something in that deep-down part has always believed in weres and pixies and that belief has finally struggled out even though I’ve tried to smash it down. Pointing at the door, I say, “Inside. Now.” The dog flattens his ears against his head. His muscles twitch and then he jumps, straight past me and onto the porch in one bound. He whimpers when his front paws touch the porch floor. I cannot figure it out. The dog must have jumped at least thirty feet. How can that be possible? I struggle up the stairs and tentatively place my hand on the top of the dog’s head.

“Okay, sweetie,” I tell him, shouldering the front door open. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

The house is warm and inviting and the dog seems horribly out of place, standing by the front door, dripping in the cold. I yank off my wet shoes and grab a blanket off the couch, throwing it over him.

“Okay,” I say, walking backward, hands out, trying to make a plan. “You warm up. Okay? I’m going to call a vet.”

I grab the phone and the phone book in the other room and bring it back to where the dog has slumped down on the floor by the front door. I sit down next to him. He puts his head on my lap. I lean down and kiss his nose. It is black and dry. He shivers.

“Oh, doggy, it’s going to be okay,” I murmur as I flip through the phone book. There is only one veterinarian listed, but it has an emergency number. I dial it.

An annoying tone comes through my phone. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

I hang up. Actually, I smash the phone down because I take my anger out on inanimate objects. Which is better than taking it out on people, right?

I pull in a breath and try to calm down and think. Okay, so I must have dialed the wrong number. I do that sometimes, flip the numbers around. I try again and get the same damn recording.

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed,” the computerized voice tells me in a condescending way. How can something that’s not alive be condescending? I have no clue. But it is.

The dog whimpers as I hang up again. I forget about the phone and examine the arrow that’s sticking out of his sweet doggy self. It’s made of some sort of black wood and has green leaves etched on its thin shaft. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t stuck into flesh and muscle.

“Who did this to you?” I whisper.

The dog snuffs out a breath of hot air almost like he’s answering. He seems hurt. Really hurt. Anxiety starts to take over, hyping me up like I’ve had eight cups of espresso. I rub my head. Think, Zara. Think. I sink my hands into his fur.

The answer comes.

“I’ll call my grandmother,” I tell him. “Betty will know what to do. She’s really practical. You’d like her.”

I punch in the numbers to her cell, which I’m not supposed to do. I’m supposed to call Josie. But this is really important, and the amazing thing is, she actually picks up.

“Gram, there’s a dog here. He’s hurt. Someone shot him with an arrow. I called the vet but it’s not going through. And I can’t find Nick but his
MINI
is here. You’ve got to come home,” I rush out.

“Zara, slow down, honey,” her voice comes through the phone all steady. “Tell me that again.”

I tell her again. As I speak the dog snuggles his sweet doggy head on my lap. He shudders. Oh God.

“He’s shuddering,” I tell her.

His breath speeds up to something fast and shallow. His eyes turn up to gaze into mine, trusting. He trusts [_me _]to save him. For a second I blink back to when my dad’s heart attacked him, to when he clutched his chest, crumpled on the floor. I hadn’t been able to help him. Who am I fooling? I can’t help anybody.

“Gram,” I insist. “You [_have to _]come home.”

“I am on my way, sweetie, but the roads are bad. It’s going to take me a bit.”

“But the dog? He’s really really hurt, Gram. And Nick… Nick is missing.”

“What?”

“Nick drove me home and we heard something in the woods and then he raced off and told me to stay inside and he hasn’t come back.”

“And he hasn’t come back? But there’s a dog there now?”

“Yeah. I went out and looked for him and I heard a man in the woods and he was saying my name.”

“Zara!” she interrupts. “Are the doors locked?”

I check. “Yeah. But he’s missing and the dog is so hurt and…”

“First, calm down. Take a deep breath. You aren’t going to be any help to Nick if you’re panicking. Okay?”

Embarrassed, I take a deep breath and say, “Okay.”

I stroke the dog’s head. He opens his eyes. Something about his gaze makes me feel calmer and stronger. He trusts me. I can trust me.

“Good,” Betty’s voice takes a hard, calm official tone. “I have just had Josie dispatch a unit to the house, okay? And I am on my way.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“First you’ve got to go wash your hands with hot water and the antibacterial soap. You don’t want to cause an infection.”

I gently lift the dog’s head off my lap and place it on the floor. Stepping around his great bulk, I rush back into the kitchen and scrub my hands.

“Done.”

“Good. Get a towel and put some water on it and get the Neosporin. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.”

I race back into the kitchen and wet a towel and grab the Neosporin. The oven is still on. I don’t turn it off. There’s no time. “Okay.”

“The first tiling you’re going to have to do is pull the arrow out.”

“Oh, Gram. I don’t know-”

“You have to. You can do this, Zara. Be strong and steady. I’ll be right here.”

I stare at the arrow and touch it with my finger. The dog moans softly but doesn’t open his eyes.

“I have to put the phone down,” I say.

“Go ahead and put it down, honey.”

I put it on the oriental carpet on the stairs that are next to the front door. Then I wrap my hands around the arrow. It’s thin and hard, cold against my hands. I give a tiny tug. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t move at all, but the dog shudders and makes a little moan. I swear, my heart is breaking.

Something acidic moves up into my throat.

“You can do this,” I tell myself.

I tighten my grip and pull slowly, trying to apply even, smooth force. The arrow fights against me and the dog shivers again, moaning in such a horribly sad way that tears start to tumble down my face. It must hurt so much. I must be hurting him so much.