Free Secret Light by Z. A. Maxfield Page A

doll. Eventually, she lost her hold and flew—literally hurled through
    the air until she hit the cement porch steps.
    “I called the police; they’re on their way right now,” Rafe’s elderly neighbor, Ed
    Kastner, called out the window. Even though his voice shook, it was loud and angry as
    well as scared, and the man beating Rafe froze. “You leave him alone. I’m coming out
    right now with a shotgun .”
    Thank God . Thank God for Ed and his inability to sleep deeply. Rafe had listened to
    him complain about it enough times, but he would never grow impatient again. The
    footsteps of Rafe’s assailant clattered down his driveway and ran off. After a few
    seconds, a car could be heard, starting up, roaring away with its tires screeching. Rafe
    didn’t give a damn what happened to that man at all. He didn’t care whether the police
    caught him and put him in jail or whether he went off to become queen of the Rose
    Parade.
    Rafe only had eyes for Mooki.
    Rafe crawled because that’s all he could manage. He used his good arm and his feet
    to ooze along the ground to where he’d heard Mooki’s last excited yip before the
    sickening crunch of her body as it hit the concrete stairs. When he got to her, he used his
    good hand to stroke her fur as gently as he could. She whimpered when he touched her.
    Alive.
    Mooki was still alive.
    “Ah, Hündchen. Bitte… Libeling…” Sobs wracked Rafe’s body, and he had no idea
    how long it was he stayed there like that, one hand on her fur and the other hanging
    limply by his side. Ed had donned a dressing gown and hurried from his house. He
    stood over Rafe, wringing his hands, asking if there was anything he could do.
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    “The vet, bitte. Please .” Ed leaned down and listened while Rafe sobbed out what he
    wanted. “In the kitchen, under the phone on the wall. The vet . Call the vet and tell him I
    will bring Mooki. Now. Please .”
    “Rafe.” Ed helped him to sit up—next to Mooki—on the stairs. “You’re in no
    condition to drive. You probably need a doctor yourself.”
    “No.”
    “I’ll go and call the vet, Rafe; I’ll call him. But we’ve got to get you both some help.”
    Lights flashed as a cruiser pulled up in front of Rafe’s house. Ed flagged them down
    and led them to where Rafe sat on the steps, afraid to cradle Mooki in his lap—afraid to
    move her at all—should it hurt her more. He’d never felt so helpless in his life, and that
    was saying something.
    “Mooki.” Rafe put his head in his hands and sobbed. “ Jesus . What has happened to
    us?”

    In the end, after a brief interview with the police, Rafe called Dorothy—beautiful,
    dog-crazy Dorothy—who was still up tidying her house after the party. When she
    pulled into the driveway in her stylish Chevy sports coupe a half hour later, she’d
    brought a baby basket of sorts, padded with blankets. Together, they gingerly lifted
    Mooki into the thing and took her to Dorothy’s veterinarian, Dr. Wycker, who had
    assured her he’d be waiting when they got there.
    Rafe rode silently beside her in the passenger seat—Mooki in her basket between
    them—ignoring the pain of his body, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart and his
    inability to get more than one brief, shallow breath at a time. Ignoring everything but
    the slight rise and fall of Mooki’s fur-covered chest and the tiny, whimpering cries she
    made every time they moved.
    “Don’t you worry, Rafe,” Dorothy said, glancing over at a red light. “Dr. Wycker is
    the best. He’s a miracle worker.”
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    “Fine,” Rafe said tonelessly. He was all cried out and in pain and unable to think
    past the next shallow breath of his best friend. “Thank you so much for this.”
    His best friend . She’d taken on someone ten times her size to protect him. He’d never
    wanted that. If he’d wanted protection, he’d have gotten a guard dog—a Doberman.