Free A Matter of Days by Amber Kizer

rabies.
    Poking out the edge of the sleeping bag were a shiny black nose, white muzzle, tan markings, and a giant pink lolling tongue. From the other end of the bag a bushy tail wagged insistently, as if we’d stopped playing a game midway through.
A dog?
    “It’s a dog.” Rab scrambled out of the Jeep and around it, toward the animal.
    “Careful. We don’t know what it wants. It growled a minute ago.” I tried to grab Rab, but he outmaneuvered me and all I clutched was a handful of empty jacket.
    “He wasn’t growling at us.” Rab skidded to his knees a couple of feet from the dog and slowly raised a fist like he’d been taught. Mom had a thing about dogs after all the bites that she’d seen coming through the ER:
Always curl your fingers under when meeting a new dog; they damage less if offered a fist
.
    I clicked on a lantern. Still tangled in the sleeping bag, the dog stumbled forward. It licked Rabbit’s hand, quickly moved up his forearm, then mopped his face with a tongue the size of a hand towel.
    My brother’s giggles were delighted like opening presents on Christmas morning. He started to scratch under the dog’s chin, and with a satisfied groan the dog relaxed against Rab and lay down. I inched closer.
    “See, it’s a pet.” Rabbit undid the blanket, freeing all four of the dog’s legs. “He’s hungry.” His coat was matted and covered in burs, with sticks and mud crusted in places. He smelled like he’d rolled in putrefied flesh and rinsed with dead fish.
    “My sleeping bag is going to smell like disgusting dog now.” I sniffed at it as I rolled it up.
Maybe I’ll switch mine with Rab’s tomorrow
.
    “We owe him.” Rabbit waved off my complaint.
    Oh really?
“How do you figure that?”
    As if explaining to a wall, Rabbit talked slowly and deliberately, “He chased off the puma.”
    “He did, huh?”
    “That was the growling. That scream—a puma. Dog made it go away. He’s a hero.”
    “Okay, get him a can of something with protein.” I relented. It wasn’t like Rabbit was really asking permission from me—he’d do it anyway.
    “Chili?” Rabbit scrambled to find a can.
    Good God, a boy and a dog in a car with chili in the mix?
“Sure. If that’s easiest to grab.” I knew our caravan had now become three—Rabbit had a good memory, and no way was he going to forget I said he could keep a dog.… Of course, I’d had no idea the dog would be the size of a large pony. I took over petting the dog, who watched Rab’s every movement with utter devotion.
Even before he knows there’s food on offer
.
    The dog whined and crawled forward a little. Rabbit dumped the contents of the can on a paper plate and slid it over. Dog scarfed the chili without breathing.
    Rabbit glanced at the pieces of paper plate left and said, “We should give him more.”
    “Not yet, we don’t want him to get sick,” I answered. “You can give him more, but let’s make sure that stays down. I don’t think he’s eaten for a while.”
    Rab nodded, and Dog tried to stand. With a yelp, he lay back down.
    “What’s wrong with him? Was it the food?” Rabbit seemed ready to cry. “He’s really hot, Nadia.”
    “I don’t know. There was nothing wrong with the chili.” I squinted at the dog. “I can’t see anything in this light and under his fur.” Again I caught that whiff of blood and infection.
That sweetish vinegary stink that shouts bacteria is present, accounted for, and winning. Where is he hurt?
    “He’s okay being petted, right?” I started trying to triage, like Mom used to drone on about.
    Rab nodded, the dog’s head resting in his lap. “Just not walking.”
    “Is it his feet?”
    “Here’s a flashlight.” Rab shone the bright LED first on the dog’s back feet, which seemed fine. But when he pointed the beam at the dog’s front feet, they were both swollen to almost melon size. And I could see angry oozing wounds.
Uh-oh
.
    Rabbit gasped.
    “Okay, let’s see if he’ll