Free Southern Cross the Dog by Bill Cheng

washed his hands in the water. His mind would not settle. He saw the sun on the water. The trees moving. The air moving across his back. His fingers were burning. Robert saw the dress. The stain was hardly noticeable now. The tooth, he realized, was gone. Either stolen or knocked into the water. Somewhere, a church bell was ringing. The afternoon service was being let out. He put on the rest of his clothes and started on his way back.
    On the road through Bruce, folks trudged slow in their church clothes. They walked stoop backed with the sun above them. Robert could hear the shop bells twinkling, doors banging lightly against the jambs. The windows were thrown open and the curtains tied back, and he could see inside the shops, and the people inside could see him, Hermalie’s dress slung about his shoulder. In one window, it was dark enough to catch his reflection—his face swollen and cut, his trousers speckled with mud. He wondered what part of him looked like his brother. A car honked behind him, then swerved to avoid him. He began to cry.
    When he got back to the house, he rushed behind Miss Lucy’s azaleas and fell to his knees. He felt the roar of acid in his throat. In one swift spasm it spilled out of him. He lurched again. A door opened and shut. He wiped his eyes and saw the Widow Percy watching him from across the street, her dog steadied in a chain around her fist.
    THAT NIGHT ROBERT SLEPT IN fits and starts. When he woke, his head was fuzzed with dreaming. He couldn’t remember what he dreamed but it was still there, down in the meat of him, buzzing uneasy. He pulled his covers over his head in spite of the heat and let the sleep take him under again. Sometime after, he awoke to the noise of someone coming into his room. He opened his eyes, and there was Hermalie, framed in the doorway. She was still in her church clothes—a cotton blue dress and white stockings. He hid his face with his spread.
    Miss Lucy wants to know where the gooseberry jam is, she said.
    He pointed to the shelf by the wall. She picked it up and balanced it in her hand.
    You going to lunch with us?
    No, he said. He didn’t recognize his own voice.
    You eat already?
    No, he said. Haven’t eaten.
    She went to the cot and shoved his feet to the side. He could hear the crepe of her skirt rustling as she sat down.
    I can bring some food down here and eat with you, she said.
    Robert closed his eyes and wished for her to leave.
    Why, what’s— Oh! What happened to your face!
    She peeled back the blanket.
    Nothing, he said.
    Your eye is all swole up.
    She made to touch him but he flinched.
    I’m fine, he said. I just want to sleep.
    For a moment she didn’t move. He waited for her to leave and when she did, he fell back asleep.
    When he woke again, the swelling had gone down. He touched his cheek gingerly. It didn’t sting as bad as it had, but the skin was still raw. He sat up, staring at the ceiling. There was no light from the window. The room was all dark, save for the small bar of light underneath the door.
    His right arm felt cold and strange, and he realized that he’d been lying on it. He lifted the deadweight and set it on his lap. The hand, he noticed, was made into a loose fist. He uncoiled the cold bloodless fingers, rubbing the life back into each of them.
    They were coming. There wasn’t time. He worked his fingers against each other, every nerve prickling. He swung his legs off the cot and when he stood, a weight fell from his dead hand. It clattered somewhere in the anonymous dark. How long had he been holding it? Dora’s stone.
    He felt around in the darkness for the dress and found it where he had left it, folded neatly beneath the cot. He packed it. He climbed up the stairs and threw open the door, the sudden light knifing into his eyes. The words were a jumble in his mouth, but he could feel it in his chest, his heart thrumming, its sharp edges cutting into tissue. He was