Free Little Deadly Things by Harry Steinman

under the bed. Later that evening Jim pushed the clump up into the muffler of Dad’s car. The next time his father drove the car long enough for the metal to heat, the dog’s hair would smoke. No harm to the car, no evidence of Jim’s payback—save the stench of burning hair, brief enough to be inexplicable, strong enough to make his father gag.
    At bedtime, Ringer curled at the foot of Jim’s bed. Mornings, Jim woke to find Ringer’s muzzle perched inches from his face. Did she stand sentry all night? How else would Jim awaken every morning to the sight of two soft, brown eyes?
    One morning, he awoke slowly, wrapped in the helpless pleasure of sleep’s immobility. He imagined that he was an Indian papoose, swaddled and strapped to a cradleboard. Safe. Ringer was still at the foot of the bed. Jim’s breathing changed as he emerged into wakefulness. Ringer stood, stretched, front legs down and hindquarters up, her back bowed. She took her customary post, snout resting lightly on Jim’s bed.
    She hears my breathing change. She hears me wake up. That’s how she does it. What else does she notice?
he wondered.
I’ll watch her and learn.
    He learned to react with Ringer. She alerted him to the subtle signals of Dad’s anger, like the tightening of his neck muscles. When Dad was in a mood, Ringer’s ears snapped erect. Then Jim saw his father’s skin flush with anger as clearly as a lighthouse beacon. He saw the flare of nostrils, the widening of his pupils, the shift in balance. Dad had a tell, like a poker player staring too long at a hole card. If Dad rubbed the back of his neck when he was angry, then he was about to lose his temper.
    Ringer reacted to Mom, too. Why? Mom never yelled or hit. She might scold Dad—mostly about money—but she never lost her temper. But Ringer’s ears pitched forward anyway and now Jim noticed the tension in her smile.
    Sometimes she provoked Dad. Her words weren’t so bad and she never used swears. But Ringer reacted and Jim listened. He heard acid-laced tones, derision in Mom’s voice. When she combined a certain intonation with a particular cant to her body, Dad would react, hands flying. It was as if he had a mad switch and she closed the circuit. Then Dad struck.
    Jim learned to move like his dog. Ringer’s head was like an arm whipping this way or that to deliver a canine mouth at play or prey. Jim’s arms learned to deliver his hands as well. Ringer’s mouth was both delicate and powerful. He could carry a baby bird, fallen from its nest, or grind a marrow bone to a sliver. Jim’s hands learned tenderness and anger. The boy who had discovered every plane, curve, and hollow of Ringer’s form began to learn the strengths of his own form and the weak spots of others.
    Now Jim could dodge Dad’s slaps and blows. But a slight, thirteen-year-old boy is no match for an adult. Jim was fast, but he would tire, and Dad never got smaller. The odds favored size, and the day before Easter vacation, Jim’s luck ran out. He was cornered in his room.
    “Where you gonna go now, little man?”
    Jim checked Dad’s hands. They were open and empty. Ringer was not in the room. He faced Dad alone.
    “I asked you a question. Where you gonna go now?” Dad lunged and Jim ducked under his father’s arms.
    “Have it your way. But remember this is my damned house.” Dad’s mouth curled into a smile and then left the room. Later, Jim would remember that the smile never reached his eyes.
    Jim whistled for Ringer and they slipped into the Pasadena evening. When they returned, Jim opened his bedroom door to a near-empty space. His books were gone. His reading lamp was gone. There was a cot in place of his own bed. Even Ringer’s bed was gone. His father stood in the doorway.
    “You think you’re smart. Well, remember that this is my house and I pay for everything.”
    Jim’s last thought before the tears fell was,
Well, I guess I can go to the library.
He felt helpless, powerless,