Page 32 of I’m The Worst

I carry him inside, settling in front of the fire, my fingers stroking through his matted fur. He curls into my lap, his small body warm and fragile. I need this. I need something good, something pure, something that isn’t pain and emptiness.

Wolff enters the room and sits at a table covered in weapons. I don’t look at him.

“Put that thing outside and eat.”

I tighten my arms around the puppy. “No. He’s not going back out there. He needs a home.” I stand, barely steady. “He’s coming with us.”

Metal clicks as Wolff sets down the gun he’s cleaning. When I finally look at him, his expression is unreadable. His green eyes flick to mine for half a second before dropping again.

“No.”

“Please. I can’t leave him out there. He’ll die.”

“Puppies draw attention. Attention gets us killed.”

The puppy whines into my shirt, proving his point.

“Please,” I whisper. I hate how it sounds. “I need him. Just… I need something…good.”

He ignores me, picking up his gun like the conversation is over.

“You’re such an asshole. It wouldn’t kill you to be kind for once.”

He wipes the barrel down. Doesn’t bother to look at me.

“I’ll run.” My mind scrambles with grief, rage, and shame. “If you make me leave him, I’ll run. I’ll fucking run and⁠—”

He doesn’t look up.

Not at first.

When he finally does, it’s a slow lift of his eyes.

“No. You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

He sets the gun down again and rises this time, closing the distance between us. He stops close enough that I feel the heat coming off his jacket.

“You won’t make it twenty feet. Your legs shake when you stand. You get dizzy walking across the room. You think you’re outrunning me?”

I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to pretend to be fucking patient anymore.”

“You can’t⁠—”

“I can do whatever the hell I want. I’m the only reason you’re not dead. Or worse. Don’t forget that. You run? Fine. I’ll drag you back by whatever I get my hands on. And trust me, it’ll be a lot fucking worse than a few punches to the face.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be terrified.”

The puppy scrambles from my arms and scratches at the door, whining to get out. Clearly smarter than me.

“And for the record?” he says, turning away. “If you run because of a fucking dog, you deserve what happens when I catch you.”

The words gut me.