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By Vikki Wakefield

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Example text

I inch my hand to the top of his head and rest it there. He flattens his ears but doesn’t resist. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. ’ I know that this is as close as I’ll ever get. He’s broken in ways I’m not. The kink in his tail, the skew in his back leg, the hollow in his side where his ribs have caved in. He tolerates my hand because he chooses it. When I take it away, he relaxes. Thump. I hold the shed door open for a minute. ‘Go on. ’ He looks at me, does a doggy pirouette, then drops onto his blanket with a sigh.

Just keep on spraying, you old witch, that birdseed of mine will sprout up nice and green in a couple of days. Benny’s not in his chair. I peer through the front and side windows, checking in case he didn’t make it. Looking for his legs flat out on the floor. We all know it’s just a matter of time until one day he doesn’t wake up. But he’s not in the house, so I check the fridge on his porch. It’s empty. No beer. He’ll be wandering along the tracks somewhere. I take the longneck with me, so I can lure him home when I find him.

I call. Nobody. Just wind. There are two narrow doors, one leading to the staircase that snakes from the ground floor, the other in the control room upstairs. They’re both locked and barred. Matt and Dill passed down the key when I turned teenager and they supposedly grew up; a serious ceremony after midnight with blood vows and secret handshakes. I reach up above the door frame and the key is still there, where I left it, pressed into a wad of old chewing gum. I shimmy back down the rope and let myself in through the bottom door.

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