Finding Friendship

I was on the move. The move to where, I didn't really know.

I had first thought to stay put. Rebuild the house long abandoned and nearly destroyed. To stay where Papa would know to find me. To stay where home used to be and to hope it could maybe be something like home again.

But I hated it there. It made my emptiness seem so big. Big enough to swallow me whole.

And I didn't like the idea of staying still. I felt exposed. Jittery. Unsettled and unsafe.

And there was the other thing. The thing I didn't like thinking about. The thing that pricked at my mind and stalked my dreams like a hungry wolf. The thing that made moving easier because sitting still meant the thing I dreaded might catch up with me.

What if Papa wasn't looking for me? What if the war had taken him too? Or what if he were trapped a world away? How long could I wait for someone who might never come?

So I moved. I headed East.

I traveled alone because I trusted no one. No one but me.

I kept to the edges of things … the edges of towns, the edges of woods, the edges of streets, the edges of rivers. I learned to blend in, not get noticed.

I talked and traded with others only as much as I had to. Picking up on news mostly by quietly listening in on conversations in markets and street corners.

I was good at taking care of myself. War taught me how to survive.

A hundred years later and Maslow was still right.

Yeah, I know about Maslow and his ideas on hierarchy. I memorized the pyramid.

Mama had been a psychologist before she'd been made to "support the war effort". She'd done more than just teach me to read. We'd spent hours in the camps discussing her favorite books. Talking about history, science, literature and whatever else she could remember. And she had a good memory.

I knew where I was on ol Maslow's pyramid. I was on the bottom. A good long way from self-fulfillment. I was in survival mode. Shelter, water, warmth, rest when I could get it. And food.

Food. If you're alive and you want to stay that way, you gotta have it.

By this point, I was pretty good at staying alive.

There'd come a point during the war when supplies dried up and I'd had to learn how to get food.

And I don't mean drone-delivery services. Or lab-grown proteins.

I'd learned to hunt, fish and trap. I was very good at snaring rabbits and catching fish. Big game was hard to find during the war, but wildlife was starting to make its presence known again now that the sounds of battle had faded.

I hunted and gathered as I moved. Sometimes getting more than I could eat in a day or two. I could always find people who'd trade things for fresh meat. I'd picked up a sleeping bag, an ergonomic hiking pack, lighters, even a kinetic energy powered lantern.

I'd snared two rabbits today. I was hoping to find a printed road map at the market that I'd heard was a day's walk ahead.

Printed maps were hard to find. They hadn't been needed for decades. But here we all were. Wanting to know where we were and where we were going and didn't have nothing telling us how to get there.

I thought of Papa. Always talkin about the 80s … "the best decade ever," he'd say, "that was the last decade before everything started going wrong."

I built a fire, skinned a rabbit. Cooked. Ate. Existed another day. Fell asleep.

I dreamed.

Not a nightmare. Those came most nights. But this time, I dreamed. A lovely dream. Me and Mama. Before the war.

We were in the kitchen. Her favorite room in the house, she'd often say. And we were baking a cake. Chocolate … my favorite! I could smell it, the scent of it filling me with anticipation as it sat cooling on the counter.

"When can we eat?" I asked.

"Soon," she said. "We have to put the frosting on first!" she told me as she playfully tugged at my hair and handed me a spoon to lick.

I giggled as we scooped the frosting on and thickly coated the cake with even more chocolatey goodness. She cut us each a slice and we dug in enthusiastically.

I woke with a start, the taste and feel of the chocolate cake still fresh and real in my mind.

Then even as I was near laughter at the sheer pleasure the dream had brought me, I choked on a sob. The reality of my loss like a hard kick in the gut. The pain new and raw.

She was gone.

I was alone.

A part of me just wanted to lie there. Just lie there and let life slip away. I was tired. I was alone. I was hurting. It was endless.

The hope that sometimes tingled at the edges of the mind was almost as painful as all the hurts. Holding on for better days seemed like a taunting promise that would always disappoint. Always stay out of reach.

Letting go seemed to be the only offer of a blissful release.

But I guess my survival instincts were too strong now.

Through the pain, I was jolted to awareness. I wasn't alone any more.

I held still. Eyes open wide, body tense. Senses alert. I heard something moving through the brush to my right, circling behind me. My hand slipped slowly to the hunting knife I kept sheathed on my calf.

I heard a low growl. One that I felt almost more than I heard. I could feel it deep in my gut … in that place where our ancient ancestors must have felt the fear of being prey - a primal fear that made me want to run.

Instead, I shifted my body slowly in the direction of the growl.

And I spoke to it. Stupid thing to do. But that's what I did. Quietly. Calmly. Like I could reason with it. Whatever it was.

"Hello, there … it's ok … I won't hurt you."

I won't hurt you? I almost laughed at myself for saying something so ridiculous.

But I kept talking. And it quit growling.

"It's ok," I continued. "Why don't you come out where I can see you? Or maybe just, you know, keep on going somewhere else? That'd be ok. Why don't you just move along?"

This last phrase triggered a memory so ingrained, I automatically continued with, "I'm not the girl you're looking for," as I made a vague gesture with my hand.

But my Jedi trick didn't work. It didn't move on.

It came forward. I prepared to bolt. Or fight. Or at least not die lying down.

Hadn't I just wanted to die?

He moved forward. Coming into the glow of the embers that were all that remained of my night's fire.

He whimpered softly.

I could see him now. Not a beast but a dog. A beast of a dog. But a dog. And he was hurt.

Blood oozed from a wound on his shoulder. He growled again. He hunkered low and moved warily. Not coming closer. But not leaving.

I recognized myself shadowed in his movements. I felt those same things I saw in his eyes. Alone. Hurt. Trusting no one. Surviving. Wanting something good but not believing it could happen.

I didn't put my knife away, but I reached slowly for my second rabbit. I tossed it to him and he flinched. Then took it and moved a few feet away to eat.

I sat still and hummed softly to myself. Partly to keep him calm. To keep me calm. And also to help cover the sounds of his eating. Which was slightly revolting.

After eating, he laid down. Resting his giant head on his giant paw.

I soon dozed off to the rhythmic sounds of his steady breathing.

I awoke in the morning with the feel of something solid at my back. The dog had moved during the night and was resting with his back to mine.

I reached out and stroked his side. He sighed. A sigh that said more than a thousand human words could say. He looked up at me and in that moment a bond was sealed between us that would never be broken.

I reached for my pack and pulled out a pouch with my meager medical supplies. My hands worked quickly, knowing exactly what to do. War had taught me many skills.

The dog was soon asleep again. I studied his features. A mix of breeds. He had a blue nose and blue-gray coat.

"You're blue," I said softly. Just making an observation. But his ears perked and he looked at me from the corner of his eye.

Hmmm… Blue it is, I thought.

I stayed there a few more days, giving Blue time to heal. Giving me time to hunt for meat to trade in the days to come.

I was worried that feeding a dog would be a burden. But by the third day, Blue proved he could feed himself.

For the first time in a very long time, I was not alone.

As I sat there on the ground with his warm body pressed against me and his giant head resting on my lap, I could feel myself change. I could feel again - in those parts of me that had gone cold and numb a long time ago.

Those places inside me where hope wanted to grow, they were starting to thaw.

My hand gently stroked the dog's fur and he nuzzled closer, looking up at me with something like hope in his eyes too.

I felt safer with him there. And I could tell he felt safer too.

"Look at us," I said smiling for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, "we're moving up Maslow's pyramid. We've gone from surviving to feeling safe to belonging. I guess things are looking up."

Blue gave a thump of his tail in agreement.

He sighed. I sighed.