It’s better if she hates him. If she thinks he’s dangerous because he is, or if she assumes he doesn’t want her around. Maybe then she’ll stop fighting to stay out here.
He’s only a burden. He won’t let her waste away in exile with him. She has another life to get back to and someone who cares about her. She seems determined to shut Luke out, but Wadeisn’t so sure that would be the case if she weren’t so focused on his piss-poor recovery.
So instead of apologizing, he suffers alone in the bedroom. Hopes she’ll leave him be to wallow, while at the same time, every noise festers excitement that it could be her.
She’s been gone for hours. There’s plenty of chores to be done, and he has no doubt that she’s more than self-sufficient. She probably thinks he needs space or she’s rightfully angry with him. He tries not to assume she left for good, though the idea takes shape without his consent.
It would be for the best. Even if she hasn’t left yet, it’s the only thing that makes sense long term, but that doesn’t stop his anxiety from shifting into overdrive.
He watches the window for the next five minutes before giving up to carefully peek out the bedroom door and out into the hall. The living room, dining room, and kitchen windows provide no relief, but he finds the mess he made still scattered across the tile floor.
He collects the glass shards and tosses a towel over the puddle while his heart races. What if she actually left? That’s what he wants, right? That’s what he thinks is best for her? Faced with the very real possibility that she has no intention of coming back, he’s ready to collapse where he stands. Frantically, he races from window to window, hoping she might appear as reality begins to settle that she won’t. It’s about as useful as someone checking the fridge for the tenth time while knowing it’s empty.
Carefully, his fingers ghost the blankets she put up for him to mask the sunlight, making it easier to venture out into the open. What has he done? She’s the only person who gives a shit about him, probably the only one who ever will, and he’s ruined that as easily as breathing.
He can’t function here without her. Can’t fucking make it. He was barely hanging on before, but going it alone is a torture he isn’t ready for, despite telling himself that spending the rest of his days in solitary at Paradise Falls was possible if it kept Kara safe.
She left.
She’s gone. He drove her away.
Wade rubs the tattered hair tie in a panicked pattern, knowing full well his silent request for reassurance will go unanswered. He’s ready to melt into the ground and never get back up when she appears from the woods with a water bucket in her hands and a flower in her hair.
The relief is all-encompassing, enough to have him bracing against the wall for support or end up on the floor. Can’t control his smile or how all that matters now is making things right again, but it’s all short-lived.
The dog barks from somewhere in the distance and she pauses, looking back with a frown, only to follow the sound into the woods.
He pounds on the window for her to stop, yelling her name at the top of his lungs, but she doesn’t hear him. He can’t leave the house on his own on a good day. It’s not a specific fear, but a conditioned response that short-circuits him. Never leave the cell. Never refuse direction. Those rules and more churn in a muddled, leftover mess. He’s spent so long under the threat of punishment that even normal tasks have him bracing for repercussions.
The only thing strong enough to overcome that is his worry for Kara.
She hasn’t called out for him. At least he doesn’t think so. His hearing has gotten better, but long distance is still muffled. She could be wailing his name for all he knows. Rather than wait and risk it, he takes a deep breath and grabs the shotgun beforerunning out the door. Doesn’t pause to put on shoes. Phantom missing toes tingle as branches crunch under his feet.
It’s not hard to find her. All he has to do is follow the barking.
There’s a dead rotter on the ground beside Kara and the puppy, who’s struggling in a tangled bush. Blood drips from one of his paws, looking far too much like a bite.
“I can’t untangle him. He won’t stop moving,” she says, failing at wrangling an upset dog.
She reaches for a cluster of overgrowth by his neck only to end up on the receiving end of sharp teeth, pulling her hand back with a hiss.
Wade grabs the dog by the back of the neck on reflex and holds tight, keeping him from lashing out again. “Are you okay? He getcha good?”
“No, it’s fine. Hold him still.”
She hacks away at the bush for what feels like forever until, finally, it gives way. The dog fights at first, but Wade’s grip is strong, and eventually he goes limp after realizing he can’t protect himself.
“Wrap your belt around his snout. I got him.”
She does as he asks, making a makeshift muzzle from her belt so he can safely scoop the dog into his arms. Leaving him to fend for himself isn’t an option and neither of them suggests it.
They aren’t looking for a feral pet, but maybe they’ve gained a temporary house guest.
* * *
They treat the dog’s wound the best they can back at the cabin. It oozes in a swollen mess but the bone isn’t broken, and a douse of peroxide might keep away infection. They both expect the dog to bolt into a corner or charge them the moment he releases themuzzle and they brace for it, but the end result is anticlimactic. The dog doesn’t move an inch. He lies in a confused heap for a few moments before licking his injured and bandaged foot.
“I was ready for Cujo,” he whispers with a sigh. “Lemme see your hand.”
