Free The Dragon Keeper by Mindy Mejía

dogs, her hopes for the show, and tidbits about whatever part of the country they were driving through that day. Sometimes Meg saw signs for pools or theme parks, but they only ever stopped to get takeout or to let the dogs pee and play fetch to stretch their legs. She’d probably stood at the edge of hundreds of rest stops, eating chips from a vending machine and throwing a ball until her arm hurt. That part was never so bad; the part she hated was the shows themselves. A hundred people crammed into some gym or onto a field, brushing and buffing and polishing their poor dogs as if they were some kind of sculpture instead of a living, breathing animal. The dogs loved it, her mother always said: Look at how excited they were to run the ring and jump through the courses. When Meg was little, she believed it, but as she grew up she learned what dependent creatures dogs were. They were happy when their owners were happy. They looked excited when they earned ribbons because they got a treat and some affection. The ribbons weren’t for the dogs at all; they were for the owners who took those little puppies and molded and trained them into winners.
    It was easy to see stuff like that, to see the animals clearly, since she was always one of the only kids at the shows. For most of the owners, their dogs were their kids, and sometimes Meg wondered if her mother felt the same way—that the dogs were her real children and Meg was just some failed experiment in reproduction. Her father, at least, seemed to like her. Every weekend, she’d stand off to the side of the judging area by herself, watch her mother bask in the spotlights, and wish that her father would burst through the crowd and take her away. She daydreamed about it constantly, squeezing the life out of that hope the way only a reclusive, idiot child could, and he never once rescued her. Eventually she grew up and let go of the fantasy, and when they sat her down in high school to tell her they were getting divorced, her only question was why they’d waited so long. After that, she’d seen her father sporadically. He came for weekends in high school, dropped off care packages at her dorm rooms, and left chatty messages on her apartment answering machines.
    On this visit, he’d taken her out for dinner every night and had even shown up at the zoo a few times with some random buddy in tow. He took each friend down to Meg’s exhibits and pointed and waved at her like a little kid. Clapped the guy on the back and said something, all smiles, nodding toward Meg. She turned to Jata one day and rolled her eyes. “Is this what it’s like all the time?”
    Jata just dunked her head into the pool and guzzled some water.
    One night, he’d brought some photos of Ireland to show her. There was a shot of a tiny, unmarked street that was apparently downtown, a castle that was near something famous she’d never heard of, lots of pictures of dark, low-ceilinged rooms from his cottage—before-and-after remodeling shots of walls, bathrooms, and a narrow, steep staircase—and picture after picture of laughing old men. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the same three guys aping in the cottage, parading down a gray beach, and propped up on barstools. Best people in the world, Meg , he’d said. Believe me, I’ve met enough to know. But they can’t name a single spice apart from salt and pepper .
    Today Meg punched out for lunch and walked up to the cafeteria to meet him. The place was nearly empty at three o’clock in the afternoon; most people had already eaten their overpriced hamburgers, sipped their solar-heated coffee, and packed the kids off to see the afternoon dolphin show. Meg walked into the seating area, bright with sunlight from the bay windows that overlooked the river valley, and found her father sitting in a far booth. He’d already been to the counter and gotten two hamburger meals with fries and shakes. She grabbed the chocolate shake and started slurping,