"Well, whatever it was, we need to get back to work."  The vet tried to sound businesslike, but there was a tiny tremor in his voice.  He was tough, and hid it well.  I doubt any of his staff noticed.  But they hadn't been in battle before.

      God help me.  I had.

# # #

    They worked on Shameless with even more than their usual brisk efficiency.  I was embarrassed about my outburst and they were embarrassed for me.  It was awkward as hell.  It was even more awkward when, after I paid my bill, the wide-eyed receptionist thanked me for my service.

    I managed to nod and make some kind of noise of acknowledgment--the kid was trying to be nice.  But I felt like a freak already, and the reminder, on top of what had happened so far this morning, was just more than I was ready to cope with.  I wanted to go home.  I wanted to crawl into bed, pull up the covers and just be alone, with my dog, in a quiet, safe place.  Yes, I'd witnessed a murder.  Yes, I should go to the cops.  But truth was, I couldn't do it.  Not in my current condition.  I'd come off as a lunatic.  They wouldn't believe me.  They'd be kind.  But there would be whispers of "PTSD" and, God help me, I just wasn't up for that.  Later maybe . . . probably.  Not now.

    I ran into a  police roadblock two blocks before my street.  They'd blockaded the road by parking the car with its lights flashing cross-ways in the middle of the street so that there wasn't enough room to get around it.  I turned where the nice officer directed me, but then pulled to the curb.  Leaving Shameless in the car, I walked over to ask the cop what was up.

    "There's been a gas explosion a couple of blocks away.  We're not allowing anyone in the area until it's safe and everything's been dealt with."

    "My house is a couple of blocks away."  My voice was shaky.  I was trying to sound calm.  I wasn't succeeding.  My mind was racing--my car had been unlocked.  My registration is in the glove box--with my address on it.  It would be just like Winston to say he was giving me time and not do it.  "Element of surprise" and all that happy crap.

     "What's the address?"

    I told him.

    "Wait right here."

            

 

I ran.

 I'm not proud of the fact, but I did.  I turned tail and ran back the way I'd come, then took off of the track to wade into the shallow water at the lakes edge to hide in the tall weeds and flickering shadows next to the walkway.  I didn't go under the arch, that would be the first place I would look, and probably the first he would as well.  I knelt in the muddy water, holding Shameless next to me with my fake arm to keep it out of the water.  I clung to him and shook, the hood of my sweatshirt pulled down to cover most of my face and keep my eyes from shining white in the shadows.  I held my right index finger against my lip in the gesture I'd used to teach Shameless to be silent and still.  God love him, he obeyed.  It wasn't usually his best thing, but this time, he obeyed perfectly.  And while I felt his muscles tighten as footsteps approached, and his hackles raise, he didn't make a sound.  Even though his lips pulled back to expose his teeth, he didn't growl, didn't move a muscle.

 A flashlight swept the shadows under the little bridge looking for us and I was glad we weren't there.  It swept nearby, across the reedy weeds, revealing some deadwood and a couple of Canada geese that shifted irritably.

 He didn't find us, but he knew we were there.

"Hey Irish."

Irish--I hadn't been called by that nickname since the service.  I hadn’t much liked it then, which was probably why it had stuck.

"Yeah, I saw you.  And I know you saw me."

He paused.  "You've got a dog."

Jared Winston always said he didn't "like" dogs.  The truth was he was afraid of them.  He'd been mauled by a neighbor's dog when he was ten or so--and while he'd never admitted it outright, I got the impression it was after he'd tormented the poor beast.  

"I don't like dogs.  But you know that.  Just like I know you.  You're such a tight ass.  No way you're going to be able to walk away from this.  Doesn't matter how much you owe me.  Your sense of 'right and wrong' won't let you let it go."

I didn't answer. First, I wasn't stupid.  Second, I didn't have one.  I did owe him.  But he wasn't wrong.  He'd murdered that man.  I'd seen him do it.  No way at that close range the poor bastard would've survived.  Jared was good at killing--just like everything else he did, and thorough.  The man was dead.  If Shameless or I moved, or made a sound, he'd kill us too.

"I don't have time for this now.  Sun's coming up.  But we'll talk.  Soon."

I waited a long time before I left the water.  The sun was well up by then and Shameless had grown increasingly restless.  Soaked to the skin, bug bitten, and worried, I hurried to where I’d parked the car before starting the run.

It was unlocked.

Had it been unlocked before?

I didn’t think so.  But I wasn’t sure.

I swore.  Maybe I was just being (more than usually) paranoid.

Maybe I wasn’t.

Jared Winston is a scary bastard.  I’ve seen what he is capable of, and it had worried me, even back when we were supposedly on the same side.  Now, clearly, we weren’t.  And while I’m relatively bad-ass, I have limits.  He really doesn’t.

            I drove home pondering what I should do.  Once there, I gave Shameless a wash down, then myself a long, hot shower—both to get clean and to try to relax.  The latter didn’t work.  My muscles were still in tight knots when I heard the ruckus in the back yard.

            Shameless and Norman were going at it.

             I exited the shower swearing, and continued the blue language as I rapidly toweled myself sort-of-half-dry and pulled on clean clothes.  I was damp and barefoot when I thundered out the back door and off the deck, just in time to witness the de-tailing of the panicked rodent.  Wounded, terrified and angry, he took off up the tree, leaving a trail of blood on the bark and a celebrating wolfhound behind.

             “Oh dear God what a day.”  I sighed.  My dog had obviously gotten the best of the altercation, but he had some deep scratches that would need tending, and the vet would probably want to give him a rabies booster.

             “Shit.  It had to be this morning you caught him?”  Shameless pranced around with his prize in his teeth, bloody, but unbowed and certainly unrepentant.

             “Fine.  Let me get some shoes on and we’ll get you to the vet.” 

             I didn't smell gas when I was getting ready to leave.  The dog didn't react either.  I suppose that doesn't mean anything, but the gas company deliberately puts that scent in to what would normally be an odorless gas just to make sure people have warning and can get clear in case it builds up enough to set off an explosion.

             I still didn't smell gas before I left.  But while I was sitting with Shameless in the  waiting room of my vet three blocks down I heard the explosion, felt the building shudder in response, and smelled fire and death.  My head went back to another time, another explosion, remembered terror and pain . . . 

             Shameless brought me "back" licking my face, leaning against me, whimpering hard--anything and everything to get my attention, bring me back to him, to the here and now.

              "Good boy.  Good boy."  I croaked out a bare whisper from a throat that felt torn.  Had I been screaming?  Maybe.  Shit.  I must have.  The vet and the nurses were staring at me.  

               "Sorry.  Flashback."

               "It's okay."  The doctor lied and shot a meaningful look at his staff.  "It's fine."

                No.  It really wasn't.

                "Sally?  Any idea what that was?"  

                "Sally, his assistant, was standing outside the open front door to the clinic.  I could hear sirens wailing in the background, coming closer. 

               "Looks like something happened a couple of blocks away.  There's all kinds of smoke.  Maybe it was a gas explosion."

                 "Well, whatever it was, we need to get back to work."  The vet tried to sound businesslike, but there was a tiny tremor in his voice.  He was tough, and hid it well.  I doubt any of his staff noticed.  But they hadn't been in battle before.

                  God help me.  I had.

 

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial -- A little late (again/oops)

 

Image by Hanna Woźna - Gil - Hanna Woźna - Gil

I ran.

I'm not proud of the fact, but I did.  I turned tail and ran back the way I'd come, then took off of the track to wade into the shallow water at the lakes edge to hide in the tall weeds and flickering shadows next to the walkway.  I didn't go under the arch, that would be the first place I would look, and probably the first he would as well.  I knelt in the muddy water, holding Shameless next to me with my fake arm to keep it out of the water.  I clung to him and shook, the hood of my sweatshirt pulled down to cover most of my face and keep my eyes from shining white in the shadows.  I held my right index finger against my lip in the gesture I'd used to teach Shameless to be silent and still.  God love him, he obeyed.  It wasn't usually his best thing, but this time, he obeyed perfectly.  And while I felt his muscles tighten as footsteps approached, and his hackles raise, he didn't make a sound.  Even though his lips pulled back to expose his teeth, he didn't growl, didn't move a muscle.

A flashlight swept the shadows under the little bridge looking for us and I was glad we weren't there.  It swept nearby, across the reedy weeds, revealing some deadwood and a couple of Canada geese that shifted irritably.

He didn't find us, but he knew we were there.

"Hey Irish."

Irish--I hadn't been called by that nickname since the service.  

"Yeah, I saw you.  And I know you saw me."

He paused.  "You've got a dog."

Jared always said he didn't "like" dogs.  The truth was he was afraid of them.  He'd been mauled by a neighbor's dog when he was ten or so--and while he'd never admitted it outright, I got the impression it was after he'd tormented the poor beast.  

"I don't like dogs.  But you know that.  Just like I know you.  You're such a tight ass.  No way you're going to be able to walk away from this.  Doesn't matter how much you owe me.  Your sense of 'right and wrong' won't let you let it go."

I didn't answer. First, I wasn't stupid.  Second, I didn't have one.  I did owe him.  But he wasn't wrong.  He'd murdered that man.  I'd seen him do it.  No way at that close range the poor bastard would've survived.  Jared was good at killing--just like everything else he did, and thorough.  The man was dead.  If Shameless or I moved, or made a sound, he'd kill us too.

"I don't have time for this now.  Sun's coming up.  But we'll talk.  Soon."

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial #4

 

    Shameless O'Houligan is a big boy.  He can keep up with me running without any trouble at all. Hell, truth told, he could easily outpace me.  But he doesn't.  When you have a big dog whose a bit of a handful, you need to train them properly or all kinds of bad things can happen.  And if they do, I don't consider it to be the dog's fault.  Dogs are dogs.  Humans are supposed to know better.  So he stays at heel on my left which is precisely where he was when we jogged past The Mourning Mother, a metal, marble and crystal creation that towers twenty feet high and looks nothing at all like a human, mother or no.  

    With the sun coming up the sculpture cast oddly shaped, deep shadows that blended into the darkness of the trees a few feet off of the running path.  Something moved, or, more accurately, someone moved, shifting their weight impatiently.  I heard the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, saw a face briefly, by the flickering flame of the lighter he brought to the tip of his cigarette.  An ordinary face, not especially handsome, male, heavily freckled.  His hands were rough, a laborer's hands, or maybe a fighter.  Not a boxer, a street brawler.  He was too well dressed to look homeless.

    All that, in the time it took him to light a cigarette.  

    I kept jogging.  The scent of tobacco lingered in the air as I turned along the path.  I crossed the bridge and he was out of sight.  I didn't think any more about him until the dog and I had finished our lap around the lake and we were headed back that direction.  I figured he would probably be gone having done whatever (possibly, hell probably nefarious) deed he'd been up to.

    I was wrong.  He was still there.  The sun was a little higher now, not much, it had been a quick lap.  But I could see his general shape and follow his movements as he ground the cigarette butt underfoot and prepared to light another.  I saw the movement behind him as well, and when he lit his next smoke I got a quick glimpse of a familiar face over his shoulder before I heard the soft cough of a suppressed gunshot, and the lighter flickered out. 

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial #3

 

     I don't like to talk about my service.  I try not to think about it too much either.  That latter is harder, because the nightmares . . . well, PTSD is a bitch, let's leave it at that.  Shameless is not, technically, an assistance dog, but he serves in that duty anyway.  He wakes me from the dreams with a cold nose and wagging tail, runs with me when I have to burn off excess energy, and leans into me and lets me hold him when I'm shaky or a little paranoid.

     My current problems came as a result of a morning run after a night of shattered sleep.  It was early.  The first hints of pink and orange were barely tinting the edge of the clouds on the eastern horizon.  The moon was still bright and visible in the sky.  It was not quite full, but certainly enough to see by, particularly since Heroes' Park is well lit 24/7 -- to light the monuments, yes, but more in a (vain) attempt to inhibit crime.

      Heroes Park is a fairly new addition to Denver.  The put it in when they tore down an old school and abandoned hospital next to Sloan's Lake Park in 2025.  It was meant to honor veterans and patriots  who put down the 2021 uprising.  But it's close to Colfax Avenue, and the homeless (many of them veterans with "issues") like to sleep there.  Drug dealers do business in the shadows of the various statues in "off" hours when the park is supposedly closed, in between the police patrols which are supposed to be random, but really aren't.  Don't get me wrong, the cops do their best.  But its a game of numbers and they are frequently both outnumbered and outgunned.

     On the very borderline of night and oncoming day I didn't expect to find much going on.  The sleepers would be sleeping and most of the crooks weren't liable to bel up and about for a couple of hours yet--and those would be the early risers.  That's what I thought.

      Sometimes I can be remarkably short-sighted.

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial #2

 

        My name is Erin Murphy.  I am thirty-six years old.  I am 5'5" Brown and Brown per my (Colorado) driver's license.  Until it exploded, I lived at 3135 N Julian St., Denver, a small brick bungalow that I was paying exorbitant rent to stay in and an even more exorbitant pet deposit--neither of which I could really afford on my military disability and Social Security, but were better than my current dilemma of homelessness.

        I served with distinction as a medic in various conflicts from the time I had enlisted bright and early on my eighteenth birthday until injured in the line of duty.  I am right handed-which is good, since it was my left arm that was damaged.  I have a prosthesis from the middle of my left forearm down.  It works well, but it will never be a "hand" to me.  It's a machine.  A useful tool.  It's not a part of me, and it sure as hell doesn't replace what I lost.

       And yes, now, that you mention it.  I do have just a teenie weenie bit of bitterness about that.  But only a little.  I could have died.  Hell, I probably *should* have.  I owe my life to a man from my unit who got me the hell out of that mess, and into the middle of this one.

Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal/Serial -- on Sunday because . . . well because

I wasn't home when the house exploded.  I was three blocks away, taking Shameless O'Houligan to the vet for his shots and stitches.  Shameless, according to Dr. Conner, is 110 pounds of Irish Wolfhound Scottish Terrier mix.  He is also, as his name would imply, a handful.

This morning he had caught wind of Norman, the squirrel who had been tormenting him for weeks by pelting him with acorns from my old oak, in time to actually do something about it.  One bound from the front step, a mighty leap, and he had a shocked and terrified gray squirrel by the tail, fighting for its life.

Squirrels have wicked claws, sharp teeth, and an attitude problem.  This one, however, had pitched its last acorn.  Scratched and bloodied Shameless may have been, but he was prancing around the yard with Norman's severed tail.  No dog, ever, had been prouder or more satisfied.

I loaded Shameless, and his prize, into my battered old VW and to Dr. Conner.

It saved my life.

They said it was an accident--a natural gas explosion.

But it wasn't.

I was left with my dog, my car, the clothes on my back a whopping $300.00 in my checking account, and a killer on my trail.

My name is Erin Murphy.

Welcome to my life.