Free AFTER by Ronald Kelly

about now," she said. As in agreement, the Malamute's tummy rumbled noisily.
    Outside the side window, an owl hooted, causing Phyllis to jump.
    Compadre jumped, too, but not in fright. The dog rose to his feet, cocked his head until the owl hooted again, then bounded out the door.
    "No, boy! Don't go out there!" she called. "A bobcat or something could get you." But what she was really thinking was Please, don't leave me in here alone!
    Phyllis waited for what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than four or five minutes. Then she heard a sound at the door.
    Abruptly, Compadre strolled in, dragging a huge horned owl into the shack by its foot. The bird was dead. Looking at the sharp talons on the owl's feet, Phyllis wondered how the dog had managed to catch it without being clawed half to death.
    "How did you get this thing, boy?" she asked him. "You didn't climb a tree, did you?"
    Compadre sat there, mouth open and tongue dangling, as if amused by her question.
    Phyllis prodded at the owl with the toe of her shoe, just to make sure it was actually dead. It was. She picked it up and turned it over. "It's a big one, to be sure. There's got to be a lot of meat under all these feathers."
    It took Phyllis the better part of an hour to pluck and dress the owl. But she had been right; it was a whopper, just a bit smaller than a young turkey. Phyllis built a good-sized fire outside the front door – she was hesitant to build one inside, for fear of burning her only source of shelter down. Then she rigged a spit using tree branches and a broken broom handle she found. Soon the pale body of the owl was browning over the flames, the aroma of Cajun spices and cayenne pepper filling the air.
    Phyllis laid out her silverware on the table and used an old hubcap she found in a corner as a plate. She moved the lavender candle to the center of the table. "A nice white wine and a raspberry sorbet would make this meal complete, but beggars can't be choosers, my mother always said."
    It wasn't long before she and Compadre were feasting on roasted owl. She had to admit it was a little gamey for a bird, but the spices helped to cover that unpleasant aftertaste. Compadre took a couple of bites, but didn't like the sting of the cayenne pepper at all. Phyllis took her knife and cut some chunks from the inner meat that weren't so spicy. Compadre gnawed on the bits of owl and lapped at a little water Phyllis had poured in old Styrofoam cup she had found in the debris.
    Afterward, Phyllis extinguished the candle and lay down on the nasty mattress of the twin bed. For the first time since the Burn, she retired for the evening with a full belly and a relative sense of ease. Compadre climbed up on the bed and settled down next to her. She found comfort in his presence. Taking the gun out of her pocket, she laid it on the mattress next to her, but that overwhelming fear of being attacked in her sleep no longer seemed to plague her. If someone came, the Malamute would alert her in plenty of time.
    "What's your story, Compadre ?" she asked him in the darkness. "Did you have an owner who loved you? A little boy who thought the world of you? Did you live in a big back yard with green grass and a tire swing in the tree and a dog house you called your own? Did they feed you scraps from the table and give you baths in a big metal washtub?"
    She lay there on her back and listened to his steady breathing. Already asleep. She supposed that day's hunting had tired him out. Gently, Phyllis stroked his back, out of affection and thanks for the wonderful meals he had provided.
    Phyllis reached into her other pocket and took out her Blackberry. She turned it on. NO SERVICE flashed on the display when she tried her home number again. Then almost immediately afterward, LOW BATTERY followed. Fantastic! And she had absolutely no way to recharge it.
    Where are you, Art? she wondered. Are you still on the Bay or did you come looking for me? Are you dead or